Taking Care
by aliis
Summary: It's almost the end of the line...
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

On the brightest, warmest day of the year so far, Emma Kennedy sank onto a bench in Hyde Park, threw back her head and soaked up some sunshine. She'd had a long morning of shopping in the most exclusive designer shops she could find in west London, and now it was time to rest her feet. She was trying to decide whether to have lunch before returning home, or to wait and eat with the others.

Suddenly her phone rang. Puzzled by the unknown number, she answered, "Hello?"

"Hello, this is Lesley's in Notting Hill. I believe you bought two dresses and a blouse from us earlier today?"

"Oh...yes..."

"I hope you don't mind me calling you, as you left your number for our monthly prize draw, but I think there's been a bit of a mix-up with your purchases. Can you confirm for me that you have a blue blouse, size 18 in your bag?"

Emma was almost offended. "Size 18? Er...I really doubt it..."

The woman laughed nervously. "I'm so sorry, but one of our other customers has returned to the shop with the same blouse in a size 10, which I think must be yours. You were being served at the same time, and we appear to have switched your bags."

Having quickly rummaged through her shopping, Emma realised that the shopkeeper was right. "I _do_ have a size 18 – shall I bring it back?"

"Oh, that would be really wonderful. I do apologise for the confusion, madam."

"No problem," answered Emma. "I'll be there in about fifteen minutes."

On entering the shop she was greeted as if she was royalty.

"This is _so_ good of you," gushed Lesley, the owner. She lowered her voice and went on, "I don't know what we would have done if you hadn't been able to come back right away. Our other, er, lady, was most insistent that she have the blouse this afternoon, and we didn't have another in her size." The woman turned and called to her assistant, "Rebecca, would you let Ms Stevenson know that her blouse is here."

Before Rebecca could reply, a brassy blonde woman in a business suit appeared from a changing room at the rear of the shop. "About time too!" she exploded, looking at her watch. "I've been here for more than an hour – if this is the kind of service you offer, I certainly won't be recommending you to any of my friends."

Emma quietly and unobtrusively exchanged bags with Lesley, gave her a sympathetic smile, and made for the door.

"You!" came the imperious voice, addressing Emma. "You need to be more careful about what you pick up. I could have called the police and had you arrested for theft, you know."

Rebecca looked mortified, but Lesley said, "I really cannot have that. This was a totally innocent mistake, and this lady has been kind enough to bring the blouse back as soon as I told her of the mix-up. Please be so good as to take it. And feel free to recommend that your friends don't come here; _you_ won't be welcome back at any rate." With this, she opened the front door wide and extended Ms Stevenson's shopping bag to her. In high dudgeon, the woman snatched it and flounced out.

"Please accept my sincerest apologies," said Lesley, turning to Emma.

Emma shook her head and waved a hand in refusal. "Not at all," she replied. "You've nothing to apologise for. You're not responsible for what your customers do or say!"

"All the same, we'd like you to have these as a gesture of appreciation for your help and patience." Lesley produced some vouchers and Emma, for the sake of simplicity and because by now she was famished, thanked her and took them. She left quickly and hailed a taxi in the street outside the shop, relieved to be able to sit down and have that experience behind her. What a horror that Stevenson woman had been!

It was only after she had returned to the crew's penthouse, eaten lunch with Mickey and Sean (Albert and Ash were out on the recce) and begun to unpack her purchases that she could finally bring herself to take the offending blouse from its bag. She shook the creases out of it, and something light and small fluttered to the floor. It wasn't, as she expected, the receipt for the blue blouse, but for a very expensive dining table and chairs from a company called the "Scandinavian Furniture Emporium".

She sat down, her shopping spree forgotten, lost in thought as she reflected on the events of the day. A light tap on her door brought her back to the present, and she called, "Come in!"

"'Ello, Ems," Ash greeted her. "'Ow was the retail therapy?"

Emma hesitated and then said, "Great, up to a point."

"Oh?" Ash sat down on her sofa, folded his arms and looked expectantly at Emma, who recounted the story in all its gory detail. When she mentioned that Ms Stevenson seemed to have left another receipt in the bag, Ash's interest was piqued.

"Let's see it." He held out his hand.

"Why? Do you think it might be worth something?" asked Emma.

Ash scrutinised the till receipt with raised eyebrows. "She's certainly been splashing out, even more than you 'ave," he announced. "Mind if I keep this?"

"No, feel free." Emma got up and started hanging dresses and storing shoes in her wardrobe. Ash wandered through to the lounge, flicking the receipt thoughtfully between fingers and thumbs.

oooOOOooo

From across the street, Ash carefully observed the crowds of conference delegates arriving at the smart Docklands hotel, then checked his watch. If the mark was planning to attend this meeting, she was cutting it a bit fine. His hopes rose as a latecomer got out of a taxi, slammed the door, and stormed up to the entrance with a face like thunder. Some bystanders on the pavement cast her a wary glance, and a man leaving the building instantly regretted getting in Ms Stevenson's way as she barged through the revolving door and made for the registration point.

Ash followed at a discreet distance, blending in perfectly with the middle managers and council officials. He had eventually decided on a charcoal grey suit, lilac shirt and tie, and a goatee beard, plus a pair of Jasper Conran spectacles. He also sported a tasteful leather laptop case, which held not only the standard computer, but a miniature digital camera, some USB sticks, and other tools of the fixer's trade.

Having hung back until Stevenson moved through into the conference hall, Ash stepped up to the table where the delegates registered. A young red-haired woman smiled and said, "Welcome to the Annual Social Work Managers Conference, Mr...?"

Having skilfully scanned the upside-down name badges sitting unclaimed on the table, Ash was able to choose one that sounded about right. "Mark Donnelly," he replied, returning the smile.

"Thank you, Mr. Donnelly." The girl lifted his name-tag, and handed it to him along with a folder of conference materials. "The keynote session is about to start, so please make your way to the hall; I'm sure you won't want to miss that!"

"Definitely not, Kirsten," Ash replied warmly, as he noted the woman's name. "Thank you." With his badge attached to his lapel, he blended into the crowd, pleased to see that the suit he had selected was one of dozens of very similar outfits.

However, rather than go directly to where the meeting was being held, he made a quick detour to the gents' bathroom, where he locked himself in a cubicle and flushed the name card from his badge. He opened his case and produced a label-maker from his stock of gadgets, then used it to print out a new name-tag. The last thing he wanted was for the real Mark Donnelly to appear and spot his doppelgänger.

Very soon Ash was mingling once more, this time under the pseudonym of Neil Morland. Upon his return to the conference suite, he was able to spot Gabrielle Stevenson sitting fairly near the back of the hall, and as luck would have it there were some spare seats in the row behind her. Ash chose a seat slightly to her left, so that as she turned to see the podium on her right, she would be relatively unaware of anyone at her back.

The meeting had actually begun, and the chairwoman had already welcomed the delegates. Ash soon realised that Ms Stevenson had about as much intention of listening to the speakers or taking part in the proceedings as he had. Instead, she busied herself with form-filling and other paperwork, sent and received dozens of texts and e-mails on her BlackBerry, and generally seemed to be using the time to catch up on other business. Nobody came and spoke to her, although breaks in the conference were apparently seen as networking time by just about everyone else there. Ash capitalised on the situation. He knew this wasn't in the script, but he was a seasoned enough professional to know when to go for it. He leaned forward.

"Quite interesting so far, eh?" he began conversationally. He was rewarded with silence. He craned round and read her badge. "Gabrielle? Or should I call you Gaby?" Anything to provoke a reaction. It worked.

She whipped off her glasses and glared round at him. "Ms Stevenson to you, if you don't mind..." She looked at his name tag. "...Mr. Morland. I have no idea who you are or why you have chosen to speak to me, but I'd much prefer it if you pissed off and left me to get on with my work in peace." The glasses went back on again and she resumed her scribbling and checking of messages.

"Fair enough, sorry I asked," mumbled Ash contritely, and backed off. During their brief exchange he had managed to lift Stevenson's sizeable day planner from the seat beside her, using his folder as a cover. He retreated to the refreshment area in the hotel foyer where he stowed the contraband in his bag and helped himself to some vile coffee. He noticed, too late, that all the other cups had been abandoned after just a couple of sips. Ash followed suit, and decided it was time to leave as he heard an altercation across the lobby, where Kirsten was trying to convince a thin, scholarly-looking man that he couldn't _possibly_ be Mark Donnelly.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

Mickey relaxed onto the couch, arm thrown casually across the back, and behind Emma. "So, Ash, what have you got for us?" He had no idea what was coming, as Albert had mooted a plan for a stocks and shares con, and this was most definitely not it. The others were every bit as much in the dark.

"Well, a few days ago Emma made the acquaintance of this woman..." Ash projected an image of Ms Stevenson onto the wall of the penthouse lounge.

"Just when I thought I'd never have to see her again, Ash," said Emma, not pleased.

"She looks like a bit of a one," commented Sean.

"I think Emma will testify to that," replied Ash with feeling. "Her name is Gabrielle Stevenson, and she's a council officer for the London borough of Hackney. She works here" - the group were treated to a photograph of the subject entering a large concrete building - "in the department of social services." Here Emma gave a sceptical snort, which Ash picked up on. "Not exactly a vocation that she seems particularly well-suited for, is it? This" - another slide change - "is the house where she lives." He paused and waited for a reaction.

Albert spoke up first. "I'd say that that is _not_ the typical house of a council worker, more like a stockbroker's."

Sean and Emma nodded in agreement, and Mickey, playing devil's advocate, added, "So she's got another source of income, or a rich husband."

Ash grinned, realising that Mickey knew him well enough to suss that he'd done his homework and that this was a worthy mark. "I checked that out. She's a single woman, never married, no family, but she does employ staff: a housekeeper and a cleaner. And her job at the council is a full-time one. Although I've only been watching her for a few days, the one thing she appears to enjoy in her spare time is what brought her to our attention in the first place: shopping." Ash's eyes grew wide as he said this, and the others knew this was going to be a key part of the story. "Ems," he went on, "tell us about how you came to meet Ms Stevenson."

When Emma had recounted once more the events of the previous Monday, Sean exclaimed wrathfully, "What a cow! 'Arrested'? She's the one that needs arresting!"

"She was really unpleasant to the shop staff, believe me," said Emma. "Until now I'd have said that she was some footballer's wife or a rich bitch from the suburbs, the way she was acting. Not a civil servant in the east end."

"So do we know if she inherited this house from a wealthy relative, or is she playing the ponies?" Albert enquired.

With a laugh, Ash replied, "Neither, although I didn't think to check out the bookies! She bought the house two years ago, but before that she was living in penury..."

Sean's brow furrowed. "Where's that?" he asked, eliciting sniggers from the rest of the team.

"Just south of the river," answered Ash, maintaining a straight face. "Clapham, to be precise, on the Fernlea Road Estate."

"Definitely a big step up the property ladder for her, then," said Mickey, to nods of agreement. He sat forward, which Ash knew was a sign that he was ready to take on this mark, and had probably started thinking the con through already. "What's she up to?" Mickey asked.

Ash looked thoughtful, then said, "It'll take a bit more research, but I reckon it's nothing legit. Unless, as Albert suggested, she's a secret gambler. I'd like to find out more, but I can't keep following her; there's too much of a risk she might spot me. Good news, though – yesterday she placed an ad in her local newsagent's window. She's looking for someone to do some gardening work for her." Ash smirked at Sean, who sighed and said, "I'll get my wellies."

oooOOOooo

"All right, mate? I'm trying to find out about the card in your window – a local lady looking for a gardener – and I'd like to take a butcher's at the place. Do you know the address?" Sean asked the shopkeeper.

The newsagent raised an eyebrow, glanced out of his front window at the small green van parked by the kerb, and gave Sean an appraising look.

"Might do," he replied, cautiously. "Got any references?"

Impressed by Ms Stevenson's enterprise at using her local shop as an informal employment agency, Sean handed over Ash's carefully-forged letters of recommendation – convincingly creased, of course, to denote much use.

Several minutes of careful studying over, the middle-aged proprietor nodded and asked, "Mind if I take copies of these?", although before Sean had a chance to answer, the photocopier had been fired up and used. The originals were returned to him.

"Er...can I ask who the lady is?" Sean had been strictly briefed to appear unassertive, as Mickey knew Ms Stevenson needed to believe she was in control if she was to be any good as a mark, and would be much less likely to hire a jack-the-lad overflowing with confidence.

The shop-man replied, "As you said, a local lady. She asked me to give her a ring if anyone showed an interest, so if you've got other jobs to go to, I'd get on with them, and she'll maybe be in touch. OK?"

Sean stood, looking his dim and clueless worst, then asked hesitantly, "Shall I go now?"

The newsagent rolled his eyes and nodded, and the erstwhile jobbing gardener retreated to his van, which he drove to the nearest park. There he stopped and took out his sandwiches, tea and the _Daily__Mirror_. He was halfway through lunch when the phone rang, showing an unfamiliar number. Sean swallowed his mouthful of cheese and pickle, washed it down with a drink, and took the call.

"Kevin Foster, gardening services. How can I help you?" he said in his best customer-friendly voice.

"Ah, Kevin," came the cultured tones of Ms Stevenson on a good day. "I believe you responded to my advertisement for help with my garden – in Finchley?"

"That's right, madam. What kind of help exactly would you be requiring?" Sean's ingratiating but not quite serf-like attitude was just the sort of thing that Gabrielle Stevenson adored and expected in her tradespeople, be they shop staff or handymen.

"Well, Kevin, I would need you to come at least twice a week in the summer – basic things like weeding and mowing, of course, plus some pruning of the larger trees, but I'd also be looking to you for ideas about planting later on in the season. How does that sound?"

Sean's horticultural know-how depended entirely on a few hours' mugging up of the Reader's Digest Gardening Book of the Year, but he realised he wouldn't have to stick around to carry out Ms Stevenson's wishes, so he plunged ahead and assured her that he'd be happy to advise on whatever projects she had in mind for her garden.

That did it. Sean had fortuitously picked the precise word which played on the woman's idea of herself as organised and in charge. "Fabulous, I love the sound of that, and I shall sketch out some of my project ideas for you in due course. But meantime, when can you pop over and give the place a tidy-up?"

Some humming and hawing while Sean consulted his imaginary diary only served to increase Ms Stevenson's anxiety to engage the services of this humble yet knowledgeable man of the soil. "Tomorrow – would the afternoon be all right for you?" he finally asked, knowing full well that the social worker was not too inclined to return to her desk after lunch.

"That would be absolutely perfect!" she exclaimed excitedly. Having given Sean a note of her address, she finished, "Shall we say about 2.30, then? Excellent. I look forward to seeing you."

With the conversation concluded, Sean proceeded to devour the rest of his lunch and then called Mickey, who summoned him back to town for a full report.

oooOOOooo

The general consensus among the crew was that Sean had made a promising start on getting close to the mark. Ash and Mickey sat down with him to go over the next stage of the con.

"Right, you see this?" Ash held up a tiny disc, which looked for all the world like a watch battery. "It'll attach itself to any metallic object." With something of an air of "Q" about him, he demonstrated using the glass-topped table they sat around, attaching the disc to a steel fixture on the underside with a _clink_. "It'll pick up sounds as far as 500 metres away, so try and put it somewhere she's going to be doing a lot of talking – say near a phone or in the kitchen."

"Don't plant it straight away, though," warned Mickey. "Wait until you've got an idea of how she uses the space in her home and then you'll know the best site for it. Bear in mind there's no deadline for this con, so you could be there for a few weeks. And you'll get paid for it, too," he added slyly.

With a grin, Sean took the microphone from Ash and examined it closely. "Magnetic both sides?" he asked, and Ash shook his head.

"Just on this one, where the darker-coloured metal is." Ash turned the mic over to show the difference. "Now, you're used to taking photos with your mobile, but for this we need more accurate and better-quality shots, so you'll have this instead." He produced a palm-size, state-of-the-art digital camera, which Sean accepted with fascination. "Take some time today to get the hang of it, practice with these." Ash slid some documents across the table. "Experiment with different light sources, natural and artificial, and let me see the results. We want good, clear images of whatever paperwork you can get hold of."

"What we _don't_ need," Mickey cautioned, "is for you to build up a personal relationship with Ms Stevenson. She doesn't do friendship, from what we've observed so far, so stick to professional and courteous and you should be fine. All we need is access to things that will tell us more about how she makes her money on the side. There _has_ to be another source of income."

"So bank statements, credit card bills, that sort of thing?" Sean asked.

"Absolute minimum," said Ash. "Plus delivery notes or invoices for anything she's bought, memberships of organisations or groups that might give us a clue about her cashflow, or anything work-related – I'll give you an external hard drive you can slip in your pocket and use to copy files from a computer. She's bound to have one in the house, even if it's only the laptop she brings home from work."

"OK," agreed Sean, and having committed all these instructions to memory, he started to set up some of the papers on the table so that he could practice photographing them. The others left him to it, and got busy with their various tasks: Emma went off to the newspaper library to research Gabrielle Stevenson's career as a social worker; Ash was setting Albert up in a dilapidated bedsit in Stoke Newington; and Mickey sat down to review what they already knew about Ms Stevenson, as well as inspecting Sean's photography at regular intervals.

In a couple of hours Sean had mastered his new toy, and began taking arty shots of various corners of the penthouse to relieve the boredom. He then progressed out onto the balcony to get some panoramic views of the city and its skyline.

Ash returned, _sans_ Albert, with a list of things he needed to get, and sat down at his laptop. Mickey turned from watching Sean being David Bailey and asked, "Albert all right?"

Only partly paying attention, Ash nodded. "Mmmm." He tapped at the keyboard for a moment or two longer, then looked up at Mickey. "But he figured since he'd be hitting Skid Row soon, he deserved a night at the tables. 'Expect me when you see me,'" he growled, in a very accurate impersonation of the elderly American.

Mickey smiled. "I think Sean feels the same," he replied, nodding towards the french window, through which the budding photographer could be seen adjusting the settings on his camera.

With a grin in return, Ash said, "Well, perhaps we all need a night out to get the con off to a good start. I could give Emma a call..."

"I think she mentioned to me she's already made plans for this evening," Mickey said, almost too casually. "There's always Eddie's, though."

"Pass," replied Ash, in a neutral-yet-pissed tone. "He made it perfectly clear last weekend that he didn't want us cluttering the place up on such a regular basis."

"Oh, since when did we do what Eddie tells us?" asked Mickey with more than a hint of incredulity. "Come on, you know you're dying to go down there just to prove a point."

The fixer made no reply, but continued working on his computer. However, when Mickey returned from a chat with Sean out on the balcony, Ash was nowhere to be seen. He reappeared some time later, evidently heading out. "Either of you two coming to Eddie's?" he enquired.

Sean had stretched himself out on one of the sofas in the living room and was currently pointing the remote control at the TV. "Nah," he replied, "I want to keep a clear head for tomorrow. Night in for me." He settled down to watch the latest dire reality show.

Ash looked pointedly at Mickey, who shook his head. "Same here, I think. Although I'll probably give _Strictly__Celebrity__Breakdance_a miss. I'll maybe catch up with some e-mails. But hey, you go, enjoy yourself. Don't let party poopers like me spoil your night out." He sat down at the computer and got started.

With a shrug, Ash threw his jacket over his shoulder and was gone. Mickey stole a glance at Sean, who had managed to watch precisely three minutes of television before falling asleep and letting the remote slip from his grasp onto the floor. Smiling to himself, Mickey typed a few words and hit return. He was rewarded moments later with the phrase, "See you in ten" on the screen.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

Between being installed at the Stoke Newington flat and his planned casino offensive, Albert had a few hours which he planned to put to good use. He strolled up to the window of the Scandinavian furniture shop, adjusted his tie, and with a pleasant smile now adorning his lips, he entered to the sound of a jangling bell.

"Can I help you, sir?" a smartly-dressed middle-aged woman greeted him.

"Oh, I do hope so." Albert slipped effortlessly into "hapless American tourist" mode. "A lady whose acquaintance I made recommended your store to me. I'm looking to pick up some dining room furniture for my place in Florida. I take it you do ship overseas?"

"Certainly, sir! My name is Doreen. Would you like to follow me? The dining section is just through here." She led Albert to the rear of what was essentially a well-appointed warehouse. They stood among dozens of table-and-chair displays, and the saleswoman said, "Could I ask who your friend was? We like to thank our referring customers when we can."

Albert rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Well, as I said, she's actually only an acquaintance. I met her briefly in a restaurant last week. I remember that she had blonde hair, a very well-built lady...possibly worked in local government, I think she said."

Doreen's face lit up. "That sounds very much like Ms Stevenson. She's an extremely valued customer, so I'm not surprised she recommended us. Well, as you know her we'll need to see what we can do about giving you a discount! What style and size of furniture were you looking for?"

"Ah...now, I don't have anything particular in mind," said Albert, almost apologetically. "Your Ms – Stevenson, was it? - told me about the set she'd bought and it sounded very nice. Perhaps I could take a look at that?"

"Yes, yes, of course!" responded the woman enthusiastically. The reason for her keenness, Albert knew, was the astronomical price tag, as evidenced by the receipt Emma had found. However, this didn't deter him. As soon as he was shown the table and chairs he ordered them, then declared Ms Stevenson had such good taste that he wanted to see some of the other items she'd bought, too. Completely unsuspecting, Doreen was only too happy to oblige, and showed Albert a leather sofa and chairs, bedroom furniture, a desk and several occasional tables which had all been purchased by Gabrielle Stevenson. His quick mind was able to keep a running total of each item, and the amount she had spent in this one shop soon ran into the tens of thousands.

Albert, going by the name of Walter Logan, chose some more of the pieces and then gave a fictitious Miami address for delivery, which he accompanied with an equally fictitious American Express card. Doreen was so beside herself at the thought of the resulting commission she would earn that she was even more generous with the promised discount than she'd intended. Not that it made any difference to Albert, who had no intention of forking out a penny. Ten percent of nothing was – well, nothing. But the reward for his enterprise was yet to come. As Albert was filling in the form to reclaim his non-existent VAT, the ebullient Doreen, rendered indiscreet by her sales success, confided, "Ms Stevenson will be coming in again, I think, quite soon." Moving closer to Albert, she lowered her voice and added, "She's an heiress, you know; her great-uncle was one of the landed gentry and he was very generous in his bequest to her."

Albert didn't need to feign interest in this particular nugget of information. "Wow, that's amazing! I'm somewhat of an amateur student of English history, and I always take in a few castles when I'm visiting from the States, so to meet a real live noblewoman is just fantastic!" He replaced the cap on his fountain pen and restored it to his top pocket as Doreen gabbled on, heedless of the confidential client details she was disclosing, and to whom.

"Well, I don't know that Ms Stevenson is actually a blood relative of the gentleman in question, but she's certainly a lady as far as I'm concerned. She has a beautiful home in Finchley, I believe – very elegant. But she doesn't turn up her nose at earning her own living, so she still works as a civil servant." Here Doreen, to Albert's slight alarm, winked confidentially and whispered, "I think that's probably just code for 'MI5' – you know, a 'spook'."

Albert gasped in a mixture of admiration, _frisson_, and well-disguised disbelief at Doreen's gullibility. "Has she said as much?" he asked breathlessly.

"Not in so many words, but she _has_ dropped little hints here and there about her workplace and the kind of situations she has to deal with on a daily basis. National security, trips abroad – that sort of thing."

"Well, well!" Albert exclaimed, shaking his head in amazement. "Who'd have thought that when I came in here today I'd be furnishing my home in the same style as a British secret service agent!" He took Doreen's hand and shook it vigorously. "I can't thank you enough. You've been so helpful!" And he meant it.

oooOOOooo

Very early the next morning, Mickey had sufficiently recovered from his night out to present himself at his new place of employment. The janitorial supervisor at the council building frowned as she read the letter appointing Mickey as a member of her team. "I don't know, I haven't been given any information about this..." She turned the paper over, just in case she had missed something crucial. "Sorry, your name is..." She scanned the letter and began, "Mr. Mad..Madu..."

"Maduike. My name is Tafase Maduike," explained Mickey carefully, in a perfect Nigerian accent. "But you may call me Fassy; all my friends do."

The woman looked deeply relieved. "Fassy. Right. Well, great! Come with me and I'll show you...er..." Struggling to think of a job for him, the supervisor looked around for someone to pair Mickey up with. She found a victim. "Domenika!" she called, beckoning to a fair-haired young woman who approached with, Mickey noticed, some trepidation.

"Yes, Miss McCarroll?" she asked meekly.

"Domenika, this is...Fassy. He's starting today and I'd like you to show him the ropes...um...help him learn what to do."

"Oh, OK. No problem. I will take him up to my floor and start there?"

"Yes, that would be great! He can do some easy things like emptying the bins or dusting the computers to start with, all right?"

"All right. You come with me. I will show you what to do." Domenika nodded to Mickey, who dutifully followed her to the lift, which they took to the third floor. Domenika led him to a cupboard where they collected their cleaning materials, then showed him into a large open-plan office. She briefly demonstrated the procedure for emptying the waste-paper baskets and cleaning the computing equipment, watched him for a few minutes, then went off to begin mopping the floor outside.

To her great surprise, at the end of the shift Fassy was nowhere to be found, but such was her fear of the supervisor that Domenika made sure they did not meet as she left. She didn't want to have to answer any awkward questions or be responsible for anything that might have gone wrong. It was only when she arrived home and changed out of her uniform that she discovered a note in her pocket which read, "I'm sorry I had to leave but please don't worry, I have not taken anything or done anything that would get you into trouble. If anyone asks you where I went, you can tell them I left early because I was sick. Fassy."

oooOOOooo

Mickey's purpose in gaining entry to Hackney council offices was very simple: to find out as much as he could about Gabrielle Stevenson's job there. He hadn't been fortunate enough to be sent straight to the floor on which her office was located, but he knew precisely where to find it, thanks to the staff directory on the wall of the main reception area. Having found room 209, he photographed the layout of her desk with his phone, recording where each pen and piece of paper was, then set about his work. Drawers, cupboards, and filing cabinets were all accessible, and he was handily protected from discovery by the lockable door. The photocopier which sat in a corner by the window was a real godsend. At the end of his search there was a thick pile of copies to stash in his backpack, and before any of the office staff arrived for work, he went down a back stairway and got out via a fire door which had been left open by some clandestine smokers.

oooOOOooo

When Albert recounted his previous day's experience at the furniture shop, the rest of the team were just as gobsmacked as he had been. A worthwhile evening at the roulette wheel had added to his upbeat mood, and his tale of the loose-lipped saleswoman had them amazed and amused in turn.

When the story was over, Mickey said, "Well, I guess we'll have to check into it, but I really think that if we'd been tailing a member of the security services we'd have heard about it by now!"

"No question," agreed Ash. "We'd have been chucked in the back of a van, carted off to some deserted airfield, and either given a lecture about being patriotic, or shot."

Sean and Emma didn't know quite what to make of this last assertion, and exchanged worried glances. Albert noticed their concern and reassured them, "I think Ash is exaggerating somewhat. We did have one occasion when the secret service intervened in our con, but Michael handled it perfectly, and _they_ ended up helping _us_ break into Buckingham Palace."

With the siblings now looking deeply sceptical, Mickey continued, "Well, while I think we can be fairly sure that Ms Stevenson _is_ employed by social services and not military intelligence, the information about her having inherited money needs looking into. Ash, Emma – can you do some digging into wills, rich relatives, that sort of thing? Sean, when you're at her house today you can be on the lookout for any legal documents or letters from solicitors which could point us in the right direction. Albert, you and I are going to prepare for Monday morning, so we'll be visiting the nearest branch of Oxfam to get you kitted out. We can go over your backstory again while we're at it. OK, everyone, let's get to work!" Mickey clapped his hands and once again the team headed out to their various assignments.

oooOOOooo

Sean parked his van on the sizeable driveway of Gabrielle Stevenson's home, walked up to the door and pulled the bell handle. A Filipino housekeeper answered the door and smiled. "You be Kevin, yes? Please to go round to the garden. Madam, she meet you there." She gestured towards the side of the building, then closed the door, still smiling.

Never having been sent to the tradesman's entrance on a con before, Sean ambled through to the back of the house, taking in the different parts of the garden as he did so.

"That's what I like to see, a working man getting started right away," drawled a woman's voice.

Startled, Sean looked around and finally saw someone sitting in a summer-house in a sunny corner of the extensive garden. As he approached, he could see Gabrielle Stevenson ensconced on a sun lounger with a cool drink at her elbow, a paperback on her lap, and her Ray-Bans pushed up on to her hair. He reminded himself that it was Friday afternoon and Ms Stevenson's colleagues were in all likelihood still hard at work in the office. This made it more difficult for him to be civil to her, but he managed it.

"I was just assessing the possibilities for each area of your garden. But I'm here to get started on the basics today, right?" he said.

"Indeed," purred Stevenson. "But first, Kevin, can I get you a drink? It's _very_ hot out here, you know."

What Sean liked to refer to as his "spidey-sense" (much to Ash's amusement) kicked in. Had Gabrielle been thirty or even twenty years younger - and several stones lighter - he might have considered any proposition she put to him. What he did _not_ want was to be in thrall to a mark who imagined herself to be some kind of _femme__fatale_. He did what he always did in such situations: he injected the faintest hint of camp into his voice.

"That's so kind of you, Ms Stevenson, but I'd like to get straight on with the lawn, if you don't mind. I have one more client to get to before I finish today. And my partner Ashley gets quite cross if I don't make it home in time for dinner."

"Ah, the little woman," replied Stevenson in the most patronising way, but got no further.

"Man," corrected Sean bluntly. Stevenson was obviously taken aback by this rebuff, but there was nothing more she could say, so she withdrew on the flirting front.

"I'll leave you to it, then," she murmured, and replacing her sunglasses, lifted her book again. She paid no heed to the young man plying the mower up and down the lawn, and when Mia the housekeeper brought some home-made lemonade out to Sean, Gabrielle merely raised her glass to him.

The mowing finished, Sean made his way into the kitchen to return his empty glass. Mia was nowhere in sight, but could be heard humming away to herself as she worked in another room. He checked that Ms Stevenson was still safely in the garden, then walked into the large hall of the house, looking for security cameras as he did so. Having ascertained that there were none, he glanced through a few open doors until he found the study. By now Mia was barely audible, so Sean reckoned he was safe for at least a few minutes. He made straight for the computer, booted it up, and plugged in the external hard drive Ash had provided. While it was downloading files from Stevenson's computer, Sean went through her hard copy paperwork. He was able to photograph a mortgage statement, bank accounts, title deeds and utility bills. Then he heard Mia's singing coming nearer, so he replaced everything exactly as he'd found it, switched off the computer, and slipped back to the kitchen just ahead of the housekeeper.

"Ah, Kevin, you finished?" she asked kindly. "You like more?" She pointed to the jug of icy lemonade on the table.

"No, thank you very much, Mia. I have to go to my next job. But I'll see you next week...what day is best?" Sean asked, taking a punt that the housekeeper was often left to deal with tradespeople. He was proved right.

"Let me look at madam's diary." Mia turned to lift a household planner from the worktop. Sean stood beside her and made a mental note of what he read. "Looks like Tuesday or Wednesday are best days for her," announced the housekeeper. "She have dinner guests Monday and Thursday, and sometimes she go away for the weekend – to her house in the country, you know?"

"Oh, she has a holiday home? Where's that?" asked Sean innocently.

"Near Hastings, down by seaside," replied Mia, genuinely innocent. "Is very pretty cottage. Lots of peace and quiet!"

Sean smiled. "Do you go with her, Mia? I'll bet you could do with a break!"

"I get break, all right – when madam no here!" grinned back the housekeeper.

Nodding understandingly, Sean went on, "So you're here all by yourself? That must be very lonely."

Mia shook her head. "No, I have time off when madam no here. No-one allowed here when madam away."

"Oh, right. Well, I'd best be off, then, Mia. Thanks again for the drink!"

Laying a hand on his arm, Mia exclaimed, "You forget your money, Kevin!" She handed him an envelope.

Sean could have kicked himself. He'd completely forgotten he was supposed to be getting paid for his work. "Thanks, Mia," he said gratefully, rolling his eyes and slapping himself on the brow. "I'd forget my head if it wasn't screwed on!" Then, recalling that he hadn't picked a day to return, he added, "See you next Tuesday, then." He left via the garden, and could see that Gabrielle Stevenson was now fast asleep in her chair, as the late afternoon sun poured its rays onto the summer-house. Sean even thought he could hear gentle snoring, and grinned to himself as he anticipated breaking the news to Ash that he was now his live-in lover.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

Sean perhaps chose the wrong moment to inform Ash of his new relationship status. The fixer was having a cup of tea whilst checking his e-mails, and the result was a sprayed laptop, as well as the necessity of a change of clothes. This granted the rest of the crew some breathing – or rather, laughing – space in which to compose themselves for Ash's return.

"Oh, Sean!" Emma was wiping tears from her eyes. "I don't think you've made me laugh so much in ages!"

"Poor Ash," grinned Mickey sympathetically. "Although your timing could have been better there, Sean. But well done for thinking on your feet with Ms Stevenson; and who knows, your 'partner' may be a useful element in your legend at some point. The main thing is that you were able to deflect her attentions."

"Yes, good job, Sean. Good grifting sense!" commended Albert.

Ash reappeared wearing a clean polo shirt and jeans below a disgruntled expression. The others maintained suitably straight faces and Ash held out his hand expectantly to Sean. "Right, you – hard drive," he demanded.

Sean didn't move. The horrible realisation swept over him, accompanied by a distinct wave of nausea, that he'd been in such a hurry he'd forgotten to lift the device from Gabrielle Stevenson's desk. He sat down in shock.

"Sean..." Mickey said, a warning note in his voice.

The young man sounded shaky and slightly panicky. "I'll go back and get it tonight. I know the place, I'm sure I could get in while everyone's asleep."

"I don't think that would be a sensible move," declared Albert, shaking his head in disappointment. This was more than Sean could bear, coming as it did in the wake of Albert's earlier praise, and he left the room, followed by Mickey in a damage limitation role.

Emma sat with her head cradled in one hand, despairing of her brother. Ash's mouth was set in a straight line, and he pulled a resigned face at Albert.

"All our hard work may have been for nothing if we can't pull this one out of the fire," observed the senior grifter solemnly.

"I suppose there's always the chance that she won't notice an extra little black box on her desk..." Emma tailed off, unable to convince herself, let alone anyone else.

Ash finally spoke up with a shrug. "We've no way of knowing. She might even have spotted it already. And the worst of it is, we're not much further forward – all the electronic files are still in her office."

"Perhaps Sean's right and we should at least try to get it back as soon as possible," suggested Emma. "Maybe he could pretend he's left some gardening equipment there and go back for it."

"I think that's our best shot," announced Mickey, as he re-entered the room, and the three there turned to look at him in surprise.

"Is that wise, Michael?" asked Albert, doubtfully. "It might make Ms Stevenson suspicious."

"Oh, I don't know," responded Mickey, taking a seat at the nearby dining table. "It sounds like she's always up for a bit of male company. And Sean's willing to do whatever it takes to retrieve the hard drive."

"Within reason," added Emma firmly.

Mickey raised an eyebrow. "He didn't say anything about that...but hopefully it won't require too much sacrifice. I've suggested he take Ash along to add credibility as well as manpower. While Sean is distracting her, Ash can ask to use the bathroom or something like that, and get into her office."

At this point, Sean returned, looking less stricken than earlier. "Sorry, everyone. I stuffed up, but I'm going to make it right. Ash, will you help me? I can keep 'madam' talking if you can grab the hard drive."

There was a brief pause, during which two of the team were convinced Ash was going to refuse, given his stern demeanour. Then he said, "It's what I do, innit? Fix things. So we'll fix it together. When are we going?"

"Might as well get it over with now," sighed Sean. "I'll drive. At least I can get us there without screwing up."

"Don't tempt fate," muttered Ash.

oooOOOooo

A puzzled Mia stood staring at Sean and Ash on the doorstep. "You forget something, Kevin?" she asked.

"I'm afraid I did, Mia. My secateurs." On seeing the housekeeper's uncomprehending expression, he elaborated, "For cutting flowers – like big scissors?" and made snipping motions with his fingers.

"Oh, for plants! I no see anything like that here, Kevin."

"Could I possibly come inside and take a look round? Ashley here will help me, so it won't take five minutes, I'm sure."

Hesitating, Mia cast an apprehensive glance over her shoulder, towards the depths of the large house. "Madam will not be very happy...she hate unexpected guests..."

"But she's busy just now, right?" guessed Sean. "We promise to be very quiet..."

His puppy dog eyes had the desired effect and Mia opened the door to allow them in, whispering, "You be very quiet and careful, now, boys. Madam is upstairs having her bath, but if you make a noise, she hear you."

"We'll be as quiet as mice!" declared Ash, in his best gay-boyfriend voice. He patted Mia on the arm as they slipped through the hall and into the kitchen. Sean made a pretence of searching underneath the table and Ash said, "Oooh, I'm dying for a pee – could I use your loo, lovey?" He looked imploringly in Mia's direction, and she decided that this was a reasonable request. She showed him to the nearest bathroom, located between the kitchen and the study.

As soon as she had gone to oversee Sean's search, Ash shot into the study and made for the computer desk. There, beneath some papers and apparently unnoticed, rested the small black hard drive. With a sigh of extreme relief, he pocketed it, darted into the bathroom and pushed the flush button. His reappearance in the kitchen was Sean's cue to "find" the lost secateurs, which he duly palmed onto the floor underneath the freezer. "Got them!" he announced in triumph, and waved them in the air.

Mia was utterly at a loss now. "I no understand," she declared, shaking her head in bemusement. "How they get there?"

"Never mind, all's well that ends well." Ash put his arm round the plump little Filipino lady and gave her a friendly squeeze. "And I _think_ I hear madam moving around upstairs," he added.

Mia squeaked and rushed them to the door, hissing, "You go now! Kevin, you no say to madam you came back tonight!"

"Cross my heart and hope to die," replied Sean, as she shut the front door behind them without a sound. They beat a hasty retreat to the car and thence back to the penthouse, but not before they had made a pit stop at the nearest watering-hole for a restorative drink.

oooOOOooo

The crew reconvened to share their findings. "So what do we know?" asked Mickey. "Sean, you start."

"Well, she has a holiday home on the south coast that she uses regularly. The house in Finchley is empty when she's away, not even the housekeeper is allowed to stay and mind the place. I, er, haven't had a chance to look at what's on the hard drive yet..." he admitted sheepishly, casting a crestfallen glance at his mentor.

"Ash?" asked Mickey, with the briefest of grins at Sean's discomfiture.

"Right, we have full information on both her properties, her bank accounts, her social calendar, you name it. The only thing we've been unable to trace so far is any relatives, so the story about the rich uncle looks like a red herring, Albert, sorry."

"No problem. I had a feeling it might be about as likely as the MI5 claim to fame!" replied Albert, amused.

"The Filofax that I managed to pick up at the conference was pretty useful, though," Ash went on, and turned to the projector screen, on which he showed, blown up, a page from Gabrielle Stevenson's planner. "This is a typical work week for her, from last month: Monday, an appointment with a Mr. Dawlish, then a business lunch, and her hairdresser in the afternoon. Tuesday, appointments with Miss Greene and Mrs. Langersholt, plus a meeting at her bank, possibly with the manager. That would have been an interesting one to be a fly on the wall at! More of the same Wednesday and Thursday, then on Friday she spends all morning meeting more people – I can only assume they're clients she's working with. There are also large amounts of time blocked out for annual leave, and she doesn't stint on that either: Morocco for some winter sun, Chamonix for the aprés-ski, and a fortnight in the Caribbean. We're obviously in the wrong industry!"

There were nods of agreement all round at this. Mickey took up the story. "I was able to spend plenty of time in Ms Stevenson's office and get copies of every relevant document I could find. What's puzzling me right now is that despite the number of people she's meeting, her job description – which I have a copy of – specifically states that she is employed at a level where she no longer has to hold one-on-one meetings with social work clients. The only time she comes into contact with them is in multi-agency meetings to make major casework decisions."

Seeing Sean looking a bit uncertain at this, Mickey elaborated. "She chairs these meetings and is supposed to try and pull all the relevant information together in order to look after the client's welfare. However, going by what Ash has found, most of her meetings seem to be with individuals, and I recognise the names in her diary as matching those on her client files. So what she's supposed to do and what she actually does seem to be two different things."

Albert finally broke the silence that had descended on the perplexed crew. "It's very odd, I must say. Hopefully my case will come to Ms Stevenson's attention, and I will merit a visit from her," he ended, with a wicked grin.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

Albert peered through the crack in the doorway at the man standing outside his Stoke Newington bedsit. "Who are you? Go away!" he implored feebly, and started to close the door.

"Mr. Forrester? I'm from social services - my name is Ryan Hughes, and I've come to help you. Can I come in for just a few minutes? I promise you won't have to agree to anything you don't want to."

Although impressed by the persuasiveness of the young social worker, Albert feigned resistance and anxiety for a few more minutes before allowing his visitor access to the flat. Ryan's practised eye took in the surroundings, noting the cracked window pane, the dilapidated-looking gas fire, and the unhygienic state of the kitchen. He also noted Albert's old and worn clothing, styled by the local church jumble sale. Oxfam had proven too upmarket for his purposes.

"Your neighbour, Miss Bardwell, is very worried about you. She asked me to see if there was anything social services could do to help," he explained simply.

Albert squinted suspiciously at him. "Who?"

"Miss Bardwell. The young lady who lives downstairs?"

"Oh, Blondie. She's a nice little girl. She brings my groceries in for me sometimes."

"She's very anxious to help, and so am I. Let's see what we can do for you."

Ryan proceeded to outline the services he could arrange - meals on wheels, a home help, a weekly trip to a daycare centre. Albert listened to all this, then said, "How much will it cost me?"

The social worker shook his head vigorously. "Nothing at all, Mr. Forrester, it's absolutely free. You don't need to worry about a thing. Now, I'll write down all the days and times you can expect someone to bring your dinner and help with your housework. And the council minibus will come and pick you up every Thursday morning to take you to the community centre. You'll get a chance to make some friends and have a nice lunch, maybe a game of dominoes too."

Albert nodded happily. "That sounds good! I don't meet many people here, you know."

"That reminds me, my boss will need to drop in and make sure everything is working out for you. Will that be OK? She'll come and visit you next Friday, all right?"

"Friday. I won't be going anywhere, will I?" enquired Albert, seemingly confused.

"Well, if you've popped to the shops or anything like that, she'll just wait for you, so don't worry. She'll make time to see you at your convenience." Ryan got up to leave. "Everything is going to be just fine now, Mr. Forrester."

"I'm sure it will be," replied Albert innocently.

oooOOOooo

"That was a bust," announced a moody Sean as he threw himself onto the sofa.

Mickey looked up from his newspaper. "She hasn't blown your cover, has she?" he asked with some concern.

"No, but she must have gone to the holiday cottage, there's no-one at the house. Where's Ash? Maybe he can tell me what's in her planner. Should've thought of that before I decided to go on the off-chance."

Mickey's brow furrowed. "Sean, if the place is empty that would give you the perfect opportunity to go through it with a fine tooth comb," he suggested.

"Tried it," replied Sean, as he got up and wandered through to the kitchen area in search of Ash. "Place is locked down tighter than the Tower. First time I was there I noticed pressure pads in the hall, and of course a top-of-the-range alarm system which I wasn't able to get the entry code for."

Ash had by now appeared from his room and with a deadpan expression, asked Sean, "What did you forget this time?"

"Ha ha. She's gone away and the house is shut up. I spoke to a neighbour who said he'd seen her put some suitcases in the car and take off yesterday. What's in her diary?"

Ash disappeared briefly to fetch the planner from his desk, and returned, flicking through it to the current week. He nodded. "She's away till Sunday evening," he said. "Down in Sussex." He shut the book with a snap. "I don't think breaking in would be worth the risk for probably not much return, Mick. We already have everything from her computer and filing cabinet. And to be honest with you, I feel like we've done more research into this mark than Sherlock bloody Holmes. When are we actually going to get on with the con?"

Mickey smiled. "Patience, Ash! It's not like you to be champing at the bit."

"It's not like us to spend close to three weeks trying to figure out where someone's money's coming from. She's loaded, she's worth conning, end of." He looked at Mickey expectantly.

"Ash, we don't want to make the mistake of targeting someone who could do us serious damage. Not that I believe the MI5 tale, but we still don't know the source of this large amount of money that she's apparently got at her disposal. Worst case scenario, she's connected to some organised crime family. Anyway, Albert's in place and she's not due to go and visit him until next Friday, so we'll just have to bide our time. Emma's rung in to say everything's going well at their end of things, the home help and meals on wheels ladies are doing their bit and Albert's charming his way into their confidence, as per usual."

Ash couldn't help but grin at the thought. "Well, so long as he's not having to slum it for too long. He'll be running a poker school at the daycare centre before they know it."

oooOOOooo

They didn't have to wait as long as they'd expected. On Wednesday afternoon, just as Albert was finishing off his rhubarb crumble and custard, his phone buzzed. He picked it up to see that Emma was calling, presumably from her vantage point in the flat downstairs. "Yes?" he said economically; he never knew who might be listening outside.

"Albert, the mark's on her way to see you. I heard a car pull up and looked out of the window just in time to see her heading our way."

There was a knock on Albert's door. "Thanks," he whispered to Emma, and stashed the phone in his cardy pocket. "Hello?" he quavered, shuffling across the room in response to his latest visitor.

"Mr. Forrester, it's Gabrielle Stevenson, from Hackney social services," the woman called from outside. "My colleague Ryan Hughes visited you last week, and I've just come to make sure everything he organised for you is working out all right."

Albert opened the door to see the object of the crew's interest smiling at him, albeit in a somewhat forced manner.

"Ohhh...come in," he responded, stepping aside to allow Stevenson to enter.

She noticed the empty food containers on his table and said, "How are the meals? To your liking, I hope."

"Very tasty," replied Albert honestly. The food was actually pretty good. "The ladies who bring it are so kind."

"That's excellent news, I'm very pleased to hear it. And I believe Brenda your home help is doing a good job."

Albert nodded. "She's a godsend too. Please tell the young man thank you for arranging everything for me."

"I certainly will. Now, one of the reasons I'm here is to find out if there is anything you need to make your home a bit more comfortable. Do you need a new bed, for instance? Or perhaps an armchair to replace this one?" She gestured at the brown 1970s chair, in crimplene and leatherette, that stood beside the fireplace, obviously having seen better days.

"Well, that would be wonderful!" exclaimed Albert with a big smile. "I've certainly found my back is quite sore of late." He rubbed the affected part.

"We can provide those items for you," declared Stevenson, taking notes as Albert spoke. "And do you have enough storage space for your personal things? A wardrobe, perhaps? A bedside table?"

"Oh, I have a small closet." Albert indicated a door in the wall near the window. "I don't have very much anyway. I like to read," he added, "and I have some books in boxes somewhere."

"A bookcase!" Stevenson made a note of this too. "And is your refrigerator working properly, and your kettle? Any kitchen appliances you need, we can supply."

"Oh, I don't think I need anything...although the grill doesn't toast my bread too well..."

"I'll put you down for a toaster then, Mr. Forrester...or may I call you Bill?"

"Please do," smiled the old man, without betraying the cunning that ran through his bones.

"I notice you have a bit of an accent there," Stevenson said conversationally. "Have you been here long?"

"A few years, yes. I was in the Canadian Air Force during the war..." Albert proceeded to give her a version of his life story without revealing anything she might actually find useful.

"That's fascinating!" was her response, when she could eventually get a word in. The social worker gathered her notebook and briefcase together, then rose to make her way to the door. "Now, Bill, the furniture will probably come all at once, so I can organise for it to be delivered on a Thursday while you're at daycare. Unless you'd prefer to be here to make sure everything is as you expect?"

Albert dithered, and was in fact genuinely trying to figure out which would be more to his advantage. He went for safe. "I think I'd rather be here when it arrives, you know. I don't mind missing my day out if I have to, it's not often I get a houseful of furniture brought round!"

"Oh, don't you worry, I'll specify that it's definitely not to be delivered on a Thursday, all right?" She patted his arm and said, "See you again soon," and headed downstairs, and outside to her car. Once she had driven off, Emma came quickly up to Albert's flat.

"How did it go?" she asked, and, "Milk, no sugar, thanks," in reply to Albert's wave of the kettle.

"She wants to furnish my humble abode. Offered practically anything and everything I could want, although it wouldn't all fit in this hole. I settled for a new bed, an armchair, a bookcase and a toaster."

"Very kind of her, although I don't suppose it's coming out of her purse," observed Emma. "I'm seeing a theme starting to emerge here, though, Albert..."

"Yes, home furnishings seem to be her special interest. I wonder if that's just a coincidence? Mind you, I don't see her ordering my furniture from the Scandinavian Emporium," Albert commented drily, "so I doubt she's on commission from them." He handed Emma her mug of tea and they spent the rest of the afternoon in comfortable speculation.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

Mickey put his phone down on the table and tapped thoughtfully beside it.

"Was that Albert?" Ash enquired, as he straightened his tie in the mirror.

"Yes. Ms Stevenson has been to visit him today, unexpectedly, so just as well he's permanently in residence. Emma spotted her arriving and was able to give him a quick heads-up."

"So what did she want?" Ash straddled the chair opposite Mickey, anxious to know the outcome.

"She wanted to furnish his bedsit."

There was a baffled silence.

"_What?_" asked Ash, incredulous.

"I know. Bizarre, isn't it? Neither he nor Emma have been able to figure out where this is going. I mean, on the face of it, that seems like a perfectly reasonable thing to be doing for someone who's receiving help from social services, doesn't it?" Ash nodded, while Mickey went on, "And yet, because it's _her_, they feel – and so do I – that there's some hidden agenda. I'm going to go through all those files I got from her office again, see if there's anything that could explain it." He got up to go and look for his paperwork.

"All right." Ash stood up, buttoned his suit jacket, and started out. "See you later, Mick," he called over his shoulder.

Mickey came back into the room to the slam of the penthouse door. "Ash?"

When he got no reply, he shrugged, well used after many years to the sometimes-solitary fixer's social habits. He smiled to himself. With Sean out on a promise, he was free to indulge in some socialising himself, and picked up his phone again to send a text message.

oooOOOooo

"Ash! You're a sight for sore eyes! Come in!" Albert opened his bedsit door wide to admit his friend. "I was just about to turn in for the night...have you been out painting the town red?"

The fixer grinned as he crossed the threshold. "Something like that," he replied. "I knocked Emma's door on the way up, but I don't think she's in."

"Really?" responded Albert as he poured them each a scotch. "When she left at six she told me she was looking forward to an early night."

"Yeah, it's nearly midnight. That's probably it," said Ash, accepting the glass from his host. "Cheers."

"Cheers," said Albert, and they both downed their drinks in one. "So what are Mickey and Sean up to?"

"Sean's chasing a bit of skirt he met on that last con we did. Mickey, I don't know about – he was still in the apartment when I left earlier. He was going to have another root through the stuff he blagged from Stevenson's office, see if he could tie anything in with what she's been up to here. Mind you, this joint could do with a lick of paint. Think she'd be up for that, too?" This last question was delivered with a wicked smirk.

"I have no idea. This whole social services thing is new to me, so they could provide cable TV and I'd be none the wiser."

"Unlikely, Albert," observed Ash. He paused, then continued, with slight reluctance, "I said to Mickey earlier that I felt we were taking too long with the prep work for this con. What do you think?"

Albert considered his empty glass for a few moments, then answered, "I think he's being cautious, and you can't have too much of that quality in our game, as far as I'm concerned. Better to be sure that there's no third party pulling the strings anywhere."

"Mick reckons it could be the mob."

Albert raised an eyebrow in surprise. "Well, he's entitled to his opinion, but I think that's a bit of a stretch. I'm sure there would have been some signs of it before now if it were true. As for her being in the employ of the secret service, that was without doubt one of Ms Stevenson's tall tales. She seems to specialise in them, mainly to impress people, although for some reason she hasn't seemed interested in trying to impress me at all..."

"I wonder why," mused Ash. "Maybe it's the sartorial elegance that's putting her off." He raised an eyebrow at Albert's down-at-heel outfit.

"Pah! Shouldn't you be making your way home?"

"I think I better had." Ash set his glass down on the mantelpiece and gave Albert a comradely pat on the shoulder. "See you soon." He disappeared down the stairs and the old man closed the door.

Outside, the temperature had taken a distinct drop, and Ash's intention of walking home soon evaporated. He scanned the street for a taxi, but when none appeared, he began to walk towards the nearest main road. He was passing the shop at the end of Albert's block when a cab turned the corner. Ash did an about-face in case it became available, and indeed it did, pulling up in front of Albert's flat. Ash's sixth sense caused him to step into the shadows of the terrace and watch, unseen, as Emma got out of the taxi.

"I'll see you tomorrow," she said, and at first Ash assumed she was speaking to the driver.

"OK. Let me know if Albert needs anything, all right?" said a familiar voice from the back seat of the cab, and Ash froze. He thought of surprising Mickey and joining him on the taxi ride home, but this idea was beaten into second place by his natural instinct to never show your hand, even to your friends.

Emma retreated behind her apartment door, and the black cab did a U-turn in the street, taking it in the direction of the crew's penthouse. Mickey's profile could be seen as he relaxed back into his seat.

Rooted to the spot, Ash grappled with the implications of what he had just seen. How long had this been going on? What had happened to Mickey's taboo about getting involved with a close colleague? Or was this all a perfectly innocent friendship? He doubted that very much; even before Emma and Sean had become part of the team, Ash had been acutely aware of Mickey's attraction to the girl – and there was no doubt in Ash's mind that the feeling was mutual.

Finally, his awareness of the chill night air forced him to make his way homeward once more, while continuing to recall - with the benefit of hindsight - all the things he'd almost witnessed between Mickey and Emma. The times he'd come into a room and they'd sprung apart, looking guilty. Or when unspoken messages seemed to pass between them...he'd suspected something, but never in a thousand years had he thought that Mickey would act on his feelings. Then he dismissed it all angrily, telling himself that he was an idiot for jumping to such conclusions, it could all be completely above board. The pair could well have been out working on the con together. And, the clincher: if Mickey had managed to resist Stacie, as Ash knew he had, he could resist anyone.

But if nothing untoward was going on, why hadn't Mickey gone up to visit Albert?

oooOOOooo

The following morning brought no resolution. Ash had spent a fairly restless night, alternating between staring out of his bedroom window and attempting to get some sleep. He had realised that recently, every time Emma had been out socialising, Mickey had also absented himself on some pretext or other. It was all falling into place now, and Ash wasn't sure what it would mean for the crew. In the end he had dropped off just as the sun made it over the horizon, with the result that he didn't surface until late morning. Sean was sitting at the breakfast bar, looking groggy and trying to persuade his hangover to go away by means of some strong coffee.

"Rough night?" asked Ash, unsympathetically, as he poured a cup for himself.

"Shut up," was the pained reply.

"That bad, eh? Where's Mickey?"

"I've no idea. I heard the front door slam just as I was getting out of the shower, and seeing you're still here I suppose it must have been him...unless one of you had company..."

"We don't bring strangers home," Ash reminded him, "especially not in the middle of a con."

"Yeah...I've never understood that..."

"No, I know you haven't," came the swift rejoinder. "That's why it bears repeating."

"I guess it must have been Mickey leaving, then, since the two of you are such bloody saints."

Ash decided not to dignify this with a response - although the irony of Sean passing judgement on Mickey's love life didn't elude him - and lifting the morning paper from the counter, he moved over to the sofa for a read.

After a while Sean spoke. "Any word from Albert?"

Without lifting his eyes from the racing section, Ash replied, "He rang yesterday to say that Stevenson had been round, that she was organising some new furniture for him, so Mickey was going to check it out. Maybe that's where he's off to."

"So she's actually visited Albert?" Sean seemed to perk up at this news. "Maybe we'll get somewhere now!"

"I do hope so," agreed Ash laconically. "All this pussyfooting around's doing my head in."

"Me too. If I never have to mow another lawn again it'll be too soon."

Partly to get the lad off his back, and partly to see what she said, Ash suggested, "Maybe you should give Emma a call, see if she knows anything."

"Good idea." Sean produced his phone and wandered out onto the balcony to have a chat with his sister. He returned after a few minutes, looking somewhat disappointed. "Nothing's happening there," he relayed. "Albert's gone to his daycare centre, and Em's out shopping. I thought maybe we could meet up for lunch, but she's already made plans."

The boy was clueless, thought Ash. Streetwise, but clueless when it came to relationships. It was as clear as day, to Ash at least, who Emma's lunch arrangements were likely to involve. He toyed with the idea of tracking her and Mickey down, and fantasised about confronting the pair at their intimate restaurant rendezvous, then mentally chastised himself for being so stupid. It really was none of his business what Mickey got up to, or who he got up to it with. Ash returned to reading the sports pages, and this eventually decided him to catch the train to Lingfield and enjoy an afternoon at the racecourse. On his own, though; there was no way he was going to spend his free time listening to Sean prattling on incessantly about grifting, racing, and anything else he could think of. One could only take so much.

So Ash waited until Sean was absorbed in some website-building pursuit, mumbled something vague about being back in a while, and slipped quietly from the apartment so as not to attract any curiosity on the lad's part. Out in the street, he hailed a taxi to take him to Victoria station. He had a feeling of satisfaction in knowing that Emma and Mickey weren't the only ones who could disappear for the day without telling anyone where they were going. At that thought, he got out his mobile and switched it off. _He_ could be incommunicado for a change.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

"Hi, Albert. How was the community centre?"

"Emma, my dear! It was...interesting. I'm just about to go for a stroll to clear my head. Care to accompany me?" The elderly man waved his walking stick in the air for emphasis, then seized a moth-eaten cap from the peg behind the door.

"Would you believe I was going to suggest a walk?" Emma answered with a smile. "There's a nice little café near the duck pond in the park where we could finish up for afternoon tea."

"That sounds perfect. Shall we?" Albert gestured for Emma to go first as they headed downstairs and out into the sunshine.

They chatted away, discussing everything from the game of whist Albert had organised at the daycare centre to Emma's shopping trip. Suddenly Albert asked, "So how are things with you and Michael?"

Emma took a sharp intake of breath, then laughed, sounding relieved. "I should've realised you would know!" she said, shaking her head in mock despair. "When did you find out?"

"Well, I confess to having had my suspicions for some time now, but I happened to be looking out of my window last night and saw you returning from your evening out. Given your body language and tone of voice, you were obviously on close terms with the person you'd shared the cab with, and when the taxi turned I could see Michael in the back seat." He paused, then delivered the next bombshell. "I also noticed Ash watching you." Emma stopped in her tracks, horrified.

"Ash? Are you sure, Albert? Why would he have been here?" she asked, unwilling to believe what she was hearing.

"He'd been to visit me and had left just a few minutes before you returned. He obviously saw Mickey dropping you off, as did I."

They had walked halfway round the park by now, and Emma sank in shock onto a nearby bench. She put her head in shaking hands. Albert sat next to her and placed a comforting arm around her shoulders. "It's not the end of the world, you know," he said.

Emma lifted her head, her eyes tearful. "But it might be the end of the crew, Albert. Or at least it might be for me. It's not a good idea to be in a relationship with someone you grift with, is it?"

"Not in my experience, no. But that doesn't mean it's unworkable. And that's not really what's worrying you, is it? It's what Sean will say."

Emma nodded, a tear escaping down the side of her face. "He was _so_ angry when he first thought there was something going on between Mickey and me. So angry. I can't imagine how he'll feel now we've been part of the team for this long. And the rule! The one about not having people stay over at our place..." She sat with head in hands once more.

"Yes, he really hates that one, doesn't he..." sighed Albert. With a more positive note in his voice, he said, "But all this is getting ahead of yourself. Sean doesn't know about you and Mickey."

Emma looked up, disbelieving. "You...you really think Ash won't have told him?"

"I _know_ Ash won't have told him," replied Albert with firm conviction. "If ever there were a man who keeps his own counsel, it's Ash. He'll think it over and over before he decides to talk about it. And when he does, it'll be with Mickey. They're more like brothers than friends, close brothers at that, and Ash knows he can speak the truth to Mickey and it won't damage their friendship. So rest assured, Sean won't know anything about it yet. Trust me."

"I have to let Mickey know," gasped Emma, pulling out her phone.

"Are you sure you want to do that? Don't you think that once he knows that your secret isn't a secret any more, things may change?" asked Albert.

Uncertain, Emma paused. Albert gently took the phone from her hand and continued, "Telling Michael that both Ash and I are aware of your relationship will alter the dynamic of the whole team. It'll be doing something that can't be undone. Like Pandora opening the box." Albert waved both hands in the air to signify all the contents of that box escaping. "Right now, only you and I have talked about this. Ash believes he's the only one who knows, and so does Mickey. Think about it." He stood up and flexed his arms. "And now, I can hear some tea and cakes calling my name. Shall we go on?" He proffered his arm for Emma, which she took, and they walked slowly towards the pond.

oooOOOooo

"Come on! Come on! Aarrrgggghhh!" In frustration and anger, Ash crumpled up his betting slip and threw it to the ground. This had been his third sure thing and his third loss, plus the horse in the last race had possibly been running backwards. What an idiot he'd been to listen to Dalton Carmody. In a final attempt to pick a winner, Ash studied the next card of runners and riders.

"The last race of the day will be the Ladbrokes Maiden Stakes six furlong, at 3.30," came the announcement a few minutes later. Checking his watch, Ash saw he had just enough time to have a swift half, then place his bet at the Tote. He wasn't going back to that bloody swindler Carmody again. Like any good con man, Ash loathed losing his money to a cheat.

He went for a walk to cool off, then stopped at the bar for a drink. As he passed through the crowds of racegoers, he checked the bookies' boards and decided where his money would go, then made his way to the Tote office.

"Fifty to win on Cahala Dancer in the next," he said to the girl behind the counter.

"Fifty on Cahala Dancer, to win," she repeated, counting his money. She printed his slip out and handed it to him. "There you are, sir."

Ash thanked her and went back out to the track-side The buzz he got from the anticipation of a winner never changed. It was what he loved about putting money on a horse or a dog, and watching the race first hand rather than on TV more than doubled the excitement for him.

"And they're off!" declared the announcer over the tannoy. "Nubian Gem's out in front right away, with Brinmore coming up hard behind him, and now we've got Cookieshake on the outside..."

Ash gripped his programme tightly. "Come on, come on," he muttered under his breath. "Come on, Cahala Dancer..."

"...and Nubian Gem's fallen! Now it's Cookieshake taking up the lead, with Pastoral Jet right behind...and here's Cahala Dancer coming through, Cahala Dancer and Cookieshake...what a close thing it's going to be!" Ash held his breath. "And it's Cahala Dancer, followed by Cookieshake in second and Pastoral Jet in third place."

Delighted but not wishing to show it, Ash retraced his steps to the Tote where he collected his not-inconsiderable winnings. Was it his imagination, or was the girl who had served him a lot less happy than she had been when taking his money? But discretion being the better part of valour, and all that, he decided to call it a day. He remembered seeing a nice little pub on the way from the railway station to the racecourse, and decided to have a bite to eat there before catching the train back to London. _Why hurry? Enjoy yourself,_ he thought. _You deserve it._

Exiting through the car park, his keen eye happened to notice Dalton Carmody closing the boot of his car and walking back towards the track. Quite a way off, the bookie hadn't seen Ash, who now found himself inexorably drawn to Carmody's primrose yellow E-type Jaguar. It was a disgusting colour, even worse up close. Without making it too obvious, Ash checked round about to see if anybody was watching him. As the next race was imminent, his fellow racegoers paying more attention to the horses than the horsepower, and Ash found himself alone with the E-type. The driver's door was no challenge for his nimble fingers, and once in he deftly removed the racecourse parking permit from the dashboard. As he walked the half mile to the Hare and Hounds for his pub grub, he was satisfied that Carmody's Jag would shortly be ticketed, towed, or clamped. Or preferably all three.

oooOOOooo

"I don't understand." Mickey looked totally and genuinely baffled. "I thought we..."

Emma waved her hand to make him stop. "Look, it was never going to work, Mickey, so let's just leave it at that, shall we?"

"No, because I don't believe 'it was never going to work', and neither do you. Please, Emma, be honest with me. Don't I deserve that at least?"

His almost pleading expression was breaking her heart, but she managed to hold it together; she was, after all, a consummate actress in every other aspect of her life, so why not this one too? "I _am_ being honest. We were friends before we were lovers, and we can still be friends and work together, can't we? That much hasn't changed." Still perched on a high seat in the quiet wine bar where she had chosen to meet Mickey and tell him their affair was at an end, she rummaged through her handbag, looking for her phone. "Albert's called. He was expecting a social worker today and said he would ring if he needed me. I have to talk to him." She slid off the stool and took the call outside.

Mickey sighed heavily, digging the heels of his hands into his eyes. What had he done wrong? He had been so sure this was going to work, that this was the one person he could be with and still grift alongside, too. The observant barman approached and offered him a refill, which he declined. Perversely, while Emma was trying to help Albert, it was he, Mickey, who needed the support of his old mentor.

"He's fine," Emma reported as she came back into the bar. "No-one's been to visit him yet, and no sign of the promised furniture either. Not that he cares," she added. She looked more closely at Mickey. "Are you going to be all right?"

He wanted to laugh out loud. How many times had he delivered that line after breaking up with a girlfriend? And how many times had he received the response which he now gave Emma: "I'm fine. Don't worry about me." He stood to leave. "I think I'll go over and spend some time with Albert, I haven't seen much of him recently. It'll give you a chance to catch up with Sean. I know he worries about you."

An urgent note deepened Emma's voice. "There's one thing I must ask you, Mickey. I don't care what you think of me so long as we can still work well together as part of the crew, but please, you mustn't _ever_ let Sean know about us. It would be a total disaster if he did."

Mickey nodded in agreement. "He'll never hear it from me," he replied.

Emma hesitated. This response implied that Sean might find out from another source. But she couldn't say this to Mickey, because then it could all come out that both Albert and Ash knew. So she accepted his word and let him leave for Stoke Newington.

oooOOOooo

"That's a shame, Michael." Albert motioned for his friend to sit down, and fetched him a drink. This one Mickey didn't refuse, and Albert raised an eyebrow as the whisky was knocked back in one go. He didn't offer him another one but advised, "I think it's for the best. You and I both know that relationships between grifters are usually short-lived and nearly always problematic." He paused, then asked, "So what do the others think?"

Mickey raised his head. "The others? You mean Sean and Ash? They haven't a clue. And I don't intend to tell them." He gave Albert a warning look. "You won't say anything, will you, Albert? Emma's practically begged me not to let Sean find out, she's scared he'll leave the crew and she'll have to go with him."

Sitting forward in his chair, Albert said, "Well, _you_ may not have told them, but what makes you think they haven't noticed anything themselves?" He left the question hanging in the air while Mickey took in the possibilities and realised he hadn't quite cleared up the mess he'd made. Not yet. It still didn't dawn on him that revealing all to Albert might not have been the newsflash he'd thought it was.

The older man got up and walked over to the window, hands in pockets, debating with himself whether to put Mickey in the picture. Doing so could be either honest and realistic, or unnecessary and destructive.

Mickey spoke first. "Perhaps I should talk to Ash about it. After all, now that it's over, he can't object."

"Michael, Michael, when did you get this naïve?" exclaimed Albert. "Ash isn't so stupid as to think that just because something is history, it doesn't affect the present – or the future."

Grimacing at this blunt truth, Mickey continued to ponder the situation. Finally, he asked, "Is there _any_ likelihood that Ash or Sean already know about this? I mean, I can't believe that Sean wouldn't have said or done something by now, if he knew."

"That's true." Albert paused, then took the plunge. "But I think you'll find that Ash is aware."

Mickey looked at him in shock, and unsuspectingly used the same words as Emma had. "Are you sure, Albert? He hasn't said a word to me."

"When did you see him last?"

Frowning, Mickey calculated, and answered, "Well, we've kept missing each other for a couple of days..." He tailed off and looked keenly at Albert. "But that means nothing. I can go a whole week and hardly see him, or Emma for that matter."

Unable to help himself, Albert snorted. "I wouldn't use that situation as an example to anyone any time soon," he suggested drily. "And I will tell you now, because I value our friendship, that when you and Emma were on a...date...the other night, and you dropped her off here in a taxi, both Ash and I saw you..." Holding up a hand to halt Mickey's appalled response, he continued, "...independently of each other, I may add. I happened to be looking out of the window as Ash left after a brief visit. I'm actually quite surprised you didn't notice him standing out on the street, just a few yards away. There's little doubt that he realised you and Emma were together."

A very large penny dropped in Mickey's mind. "And does Emma know about this, too? You've told her, haven't you?"

"Yes, I did. She seemed to think she could handle it, although she was nervous that Sean might find out."

"Albert, _why_ did you have to do that?" Mickey's frustration came pouring out. "We were doing just fine! What does it matter if Ash knows, or you know? You're not going to be bothered by my having a relationship with Emma, are you?"

"I'll tell you what I told her: you can't un-know something like that. Once it's out in the open, things can change, and not always in the way we'd like them to. Our crew doesn't operate in a vacuum; events and circumstances, even seemingly unimportant ones, have an effect on us as a team and as individuals. How can Ash believe you'll always act in his best interests while you're with Emma? What if, one day, you have to make a choice between his safety and hers? And what happens if you and Emma break up? No, an ongoing relationship between the two of you would irrevocably alter the way we see each other." Albert fell silent, having said his piece.

Unable to argue with this logic, Mickey leaned against the wall on the opposite side of the bay window and faced his old friend. "So what happens now? We all go our separate ways?"

"Not if I have anything to do with it," retorted Albert vehemently. "So long as Sean continues to remain in the dark, we're OK. But you need to have a good talk with Ash, assure him that everything's as it was. Emma obviously feels that's what should happen, and I certainly agree that it would be the best way to play it."

"I'll call Ash, have just the two of us sit down and talk it over."

"He's a good listener, Michael. Make sure _you_ hear what _he_ has to say. Sometimes I get the impression that he thinks his voice isn't being heard."


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

Mickey arrived at Eddie's Bar just after eight and ordered a drink. The place was as busy as usual – that is, the only customers were himself and Ash, who had chosen a table well away from prying eyes and ears, unlikely as it seemed. Although Mickey hadn't said what he wanted to discuss, Ash hadn't had any problems guessing what it would be about.

He nodded in greeting. "Mick."

"Hi, Ash. Can I get you..."

The fixer waved a hand in refusal. "I'm fine, thanks." He was nursing the remnants of a pint, evidence that he'd either been pretty thirsty, or had been here for some time before Mickey. Eddie brought a tomato juice over and beetled off discreetly; his barman's antennae told him that this was not a time to try and engage in small talk.

"I thought we should catch up," Mickey began, keeping the conversation low-key to begin with. "I was saying to Albert earlier, it's been days since we even saw each other. So what've you been up to?"

Ash considered letting Mickey off the hook by explaining he'd seen him with Emma and sussed what they were up to, but he decided to make him suffer a little longer by describing, in unnecessary detail, his day at the races. It was quite satisfying to see Mickey make a good pretence of being interested, trying not to seem impatient to speak.

When Ash knew he could drag it out no longer, he ended his monologue. "But enough of me. How are things with you?" He drained his glass and signalled to Eddie for a refill, which was swiftly provided.

Finally Mickey went for it. "Albert tells me you were over seeing him - Wednesday night, was it?"

"Yeah. He seems to be getting on all right. That dive he's living in isn't doing him any good, though; I've seen better-looking septic tanks."

Tempting though it was to digress into a discussion of how crucial Albert's living arrangements were to the success of the con, Mickey seized the bull by the horns. "Sounds like I just missed you, then. Emma and I were out for dinner and I dropped her back there afterwards." He waited for Ash to acknowledge that he'd seen them, but no such admission seemed to be forthcoming, so he forged ahead. "Albert was looking out of his window when our taxi pulled up, and he noticed you watching from the street."

Ash's poker face betrayed no surprise, or any other emotion. "I was looking for a cab myself," he said. "Pity it was already taken." His sapphire-blue eyes met Mickey's gaze in a challenge.

"Just say it, Ash."

"What? That suddenly it seems like you've decided to abandon your own advice, throw caution to the winds, and have it off with Emma? Or have I got that wrong?" His tone of voice indicated that he didn't for a split second think that he had.

Now that it came to the crunch, Mickey didn't know what to say. He'd turned it over and over in his mind on the way back from Albert's, planning the whole conversation in advance, including what he imagined Ash's response would be. He sat shaking his head, staring at the table, then took a drink.

"So I _was_ right. You and her _were_ at it. How long has that been going on for?" Anger, almost bubbling over, could be heard in Ash's voice.

"Not even a week, Ash. I promise you. She finished it as soon as she realised our being together could jeopardise the crew's future."

"Too right it could! What d'you think Sean would..."

Mickey cut right across his friend's question. "Sean is absolutely not going to find out. Ever. Emma has made that a condition of her staying with us." It was bending the truth a little, but Mickey reckoned it wasn't a million miles from what had been said. He also knew that making Emma responsible for the idea of keeping it from Sean would make it more likely that Ash would comply, knowing her brother as she did.

The two were quiet for a few minutes. Anyone entering the bar and not knowing them would have assumed they were simply enjoying a companionable drink. Eddie knew better and stayed at the far end of his territory, polishing glasses.

"And suppose Sean cottons on to what you've been up to? D'you think he'll just let it go?" asked Ash, belligerently.

"I don't see how he'd find out. Emma's not going to tell him, nor is Albert, and I certainly won't, either." There was a pause. "Unless you're planning to spill the beans."

Ash frowned. "That's not what I'm saying."

"Then who else is likely to tell him? Or maybe you suspect Eddie..."

"If Emma doesn't want Sean to know, then I'll go with that, but these things have a way of getting round. When you were out with her, d'you think you were invisible? Isn't it possible that Sean himself might have spotted you together?"

"What, and not have said anything to either of us? I don't see that happening, somehow," retorted Mickey, almost smugly.

Ash sat back, quietly enraged, as if he were seeing something for the first time. "You really believe you're invincible, don't you?" he said softly, incredulously. "As if you can do anything, and still control the consequences. Just because _you_ don't know about something doesn't mean it can't possibly have happened. Has it never occurred to you that Sean has access to the grifters' grapevine, just like we do? Or maybe you honestly think that because you picked him and Emma off the streets, you've got the right to tell them what to say and do and feel."

Unaccustomed to this kind of brutal forthrightness from Ash, Mickey struggled to respond. _Am I really that arrogant? _he wondered. _Am I as much of a control freak as Ash says I am?_ For many minutes, neither man spoke a word. The silence was broken by the bar phone ringing and Eddie nearly breaking a leg, and a crate of mixers, to answer it and make it stop. He could distinctly be heard saying, "Look, this isn't a good time...I'll call you back later, OK?" and although he was nowhere to be seen, it was obvious he was lurking in the shadows, his attempts to be discreet now looking only like eavesdropping.

"I think we should finish this conversation back at the hotel," announced Mickey, and got up to leave.

"You go if you like," retorted Ash. "I've said all I want."

Mickey regarded his friend soberly. "Don't you want to hear what I have to say?"

"You mean there's more?" came the sardonic reply. "I think I've listened to as much as I can take for one night." He finished his pint, wiped his mouth, and rose to face Mickey. "Tell Sean, don't tell Sean – it's all one to me. I need a break. I'll be back for my gear in a few days, maybe more...meanwhile, consider me off the crew. It's not as if anything's actually happening with this con anyway." He strode calmly out of the bar, leaving a stunned Mickey and a gawping Eddie in his wake. Mickey threw a tenner at the barman and went determinedly out into the night.

oooOOOooo

Late the following morning, Mickey called Emma and asked her and Albert back to the penthouse suite for an urgent meeting. Sean was also summoned from his extra-curricular activities via text message. By noon they were all assembled in the lounge area, with Emma trying not to look as nervous as she felt. She had hoped to have a private talk with Mickey when she arrived, but Sean cornered her at once, and her hopes faded as Mickey indicated they should all sit down. The briefing began.

First, Albert was asked to report on the latest happenings at his end of things, then Sean, who had been continuing to observe the Stevenson residence in his gardener's guise, shared a few choice details. Emma, of course, had been assigned to watch over Albert so had nothing very different to report – apart from her assignations with Mickey, which she was starting to worry he might actually mention. Fortunately he did nothing of the sort, although her inward relief disappeared almost as quickly as it had arisen.

"I'm afraid I've got some bad news," began Mickey. Albert, Emma surmised, would already know. "Ash has had to go away for a few days on a personal matter, so Sean" - Mickey turned to face him directly - "you'll be in charge of any fixing that needs to be done. Technical stuff - fake websites, surveillance, as well as getting hold of any items we need. Can you do that?" Mickey asked, in a tone that suggested a negative reply was not an option.

And Sean fell for it, his pride inflated by the apparent trust placed in him by the hustlers he respected beyond measure. Emma at once saw this distraction tactic for what it was, as Sean was quickly sidetracked from wondering what on earth was going on, and anger built inside her at the way she saw her baby brother being manipulated. Albert evidently noticed her unease, however, because she suddenly felt a squeeze on her left hand, which rested on the sofa between the two of them. She looked up and saw his smile, and walked headlong into the same trap as Sean had just done. She smiled back at kindly, wise Albert, as Mickey continued to outline their next move.

"So, Sean," he was saying as Emma re-focused her attention, "can you get onto that right away?"

"No problem, Mick."

Emma rolled her eyes at her brother's response. He was actually starting to _sound_ like Ash now. But even as she thought about this, Sean was up and had left the room, and the apartment, before she understood what was happening.

"Good." Mickey all but rubbed his hands together in satisfaction, and started to pour some coffee.

Turning to Albert, Emma asked quietly, "Where is Sean going?"

Albert explained patiently, "He's going to check out Ms Stevenson at her holiday cottage for a couple of days. And Michael has ordered him to keep radio silence unless he discovers anything of vital importance. So no texts or calls." Again, the old man patted Emma's hand in a fatherly way, and she realised that, like her brother, she had been conned. She flounced away from Albert and went out onto the penthouse's balcony, where Mickey stood sipping his coffee and admiring the view.

"I think you owe me an explanation," she told him, firmly, her voice sounding hostile.

"Do you?" came the laconic reply. "For what?"

"I don't appreciate you getting shot of my brother in such a cynical way, inventing things for him to do elsewhere so he doesn't twig what's been happening, or have a chance to ask why Ash has gone. Come to that – where _is_ Ash? What's this 'personal matter' that's taken him away so urgently?"

"Nothing you need to concern yourself about, Emma. We still have a score to run, remember, so keep focused on that."

"What kind of answer is that? How stupid do you think I am?" asked Emma, with deep indignation. "You may have been able to fool Sean, but you don't fool me. Have you and Ash had a disagreement because of us?"

Mickey turned to look at the young woman and realised she had him sussed. "Ash is...angry with me at the moment. He's gone off for a few days but he'll be back, I promise you." He laid a hand gently on Emma's arm, only to have it shaken off.

"I've had just about enough of you two patronising me!" She directed her remark at both Mickey and Albert, who had joined them on the balcony. They saw the blazing fury in her eyes and attempted to calm her down, but the harder they tried, the angrier she became until they realised it was pointless. She stormed off to her room, incandescent.

Albert sighed and returned to the lounge, where he found the Napoleon brandy he'd been saving for a special occasion, and decided to hell with it, he needed it _now_. Mickey followed, moodily, and threw himself onto the sofa where he lay and stared at the ceiling.

oooOOOooo

By a strange coincidence, this was exactly the same position that Ash was now assuming in the Hertfordshire country house hotel where he had sequestered himself. He had blown a small fortune on clothes to replace what he'd left behind, then stopped to blag a decent motor (a Mercedes SLK class, blue) from a long-stay car park. Nothing showy, though, as the last thing he wanted to do out here was attract anyone's attention. Just good enough to blend in at a place like this.

His senses snapped back to reality with a knock at the door to his room. He got up and took a quick look around to ensure that he'd left nothing incriminating lying about. Only a few innocent items such as his laptop and Globe-Trotter luggage were in sight, and these were part of the cover he'd chosen as a business executive.

He lifted the _Financial Times _and called casually, "Come in!"

The door opened and a smartly-dressed woman said, "Hello, Mr. Prior?"

"How can I help you?" Ash asked coolly, looking up as if from reading his newspaper.

The visitor gave a little laugh and said, "That's actually my line. I'm Victoria Knowles, the guest services supervisor, and I just wanted to check that everything was in order for you in our Ambassador Suite."

"Oh...yes, absolutely fine, thank you." Ash found himself caught a little off-guard; no matter how many times he stayed at gaffs like this, he always felt slightly out of place, and especially so when he wasn't actually working. Well, he wasn't really. Colin Prior was simply the name on the Platinum Visa card he'd picked from the small stock he always carried in his wallet.

"I also wanted to make you aware of the various activities and opportunities we offer our guests – the gym and spa, golf, horse riding, archery..."

"I quite fancy the sound of that," Ash replied with unaccustomed candour. "Archery. It's always fascinated me."

A beaming smile crossed Victoria's face. "Then how about I arrange a taster session for you? You'll have the services of Paul, our coach, and you can choose from a one- or two-hour lesson with him. He's available tomorrow morning and afternoon."

With only the slightest hesitation, Ash replied, "How about the afternoon? Just an hour would do, at least to start with."

"Let me check with Paul and I'll ring you to confirm that, Mr. Prior. Shall I call you here in your room, or on your mobile?"

"Oh, I'm not planning on going very far today. My room number should be fine."

"Excellent! I'll get back to you soon, and of course in the meantime if there's anything else you need, don't hesitate to contact me," said Victoria. "Just call reception and leave a message with them."

"Thank you, Victoria," said Ash graciously, and she withdrew, closing the door quietly as she went. He turned and walked to the French windows, opened them and breathed deeply as the fresh air swept over him. A break was, indeed, just what he needed.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

Emma had been wrong about at least one thing: Mickey had _not_ told Albert about Ash's departure in advance of their pow-wow. Thus it was that after Emma had withdrawn to her room and Mickey had had time to reflect (and Albert had drunk some more brandy), there was an opportunity for the old man to raise the issue.

"So, Michael, are you going to tell me what's happened with Ash?" he asked, with something of concern in his voice.

"Of course, Albert. I'm sorry I didn't get the chance to speak to you about it beforehand..."

"Did you lose your phone?" was the acerbic response.

"Point taken," conceded Mickey. "I wanted to discuss it with you in person." He fell silent.

"I'm looking forward to it."

In spite of the awkwardness of the moment, Mickey found himself grinning at Albert's directness. "Well, as you suggested, I had a chat with Ash about...what had been going on between Emma and myself..." He hesitated once more, trying to find the right words.

"Let me guess: he was deeply hurt, disappointed that you'd let the crew down, and now he's gone off somewhere to think about his future. Is that a fair assessment of the situation?"

Nodding, Mickey added by way of mitigation, "It's not that he resented my relationship with Emma so much as her request to keep it from Sean. He seemed to think it was inevitable that Sean would find out through 'the word on the street', or something like that." He was being overly dismissive of Ash's opinion, he knew. The possibility of him and Emma being "outed" by a fellow grifter's gossip wasn't that unlikely.

"So that's the reason you've fabricated this 'mission' for Sean in the country - to put him out of reach of any potentially damaging whispers." Albert sat forward on the edge of his chair, refilled brandy glass nestling in both hands. He looked directly at his erstwhile protégé. "Michael, I thought we could survive anything when you left for Australia and Danny took over. All the tight spots we got into, and got ourselves out of, proved to me that if we pulled together we'd be all right. I was convinced that, regardless of the make-up of the team, we were hard to beat in a con. And I stand by that. But it's taken this..._disregard_ for the grifter's code and your own personal rules to bring us to the edge. We're standing on a precipice, Michael, and I don't know if we can step back from it this time." He ignored Mickey's shocked expression and finished his drink before continuing. "You, me and Ash are the core of this crew. We managed before Emma and Sean came along and we could manage without them again. We even got along without you for a while, and I put that down to Ash and Stacie's teamwork..."

"...I think you're doing yourself a disservice, Albert; _you_ were in charge while I was gone, no matter what Danny thought."

Albert waved away Mickey's objection. "Water under the bridge," he said. "What I'm trying to say is that I don't think we can stay together if Ash goes. He is central to our success. We've got along without you, you've managed without me a few times, but Ash has always been here." He saw the surprised realisation on Mickey's face. "Think about it." Albert set his glass down firmly and stood up. "I'm going to see if I can get him back."

oooOOOooo

Once Albert had departed to try and track Ash down, Mickey realised that the team had, in effect, been fragmented already. Only he and Emma remained – further irony – as Sean was on his way to Hastings. Mickey had been sitting, pacing, leaning on the balcony, all the while going over in his mind what to do next, when Emma suddenly appeared beside him. She looked upset and confused.

"Hey," Mickey responded gently, touching her shoulder and waiting for yet more rejection.

Without acknowledging this, Emma asked, "Where's Albert? I need to speak to him."

_The unofficial grifter's agony uncle_, though Mickey wryly. _Every last one of us would take our problems to him before anyone else. _ He remembered Emma had abandonment issues, and tried to reassure her. "He's gone out for a while but he'll be back, don't worry."

"Maybe I'll text him," she said, and proceeded to do so. Mickey resisted the urge to tell her this was pointless, as Albert would have his phone turned off or on silent while out scouting. It seemed kinder to allow her that one comforting hope. Once her message had been sent, Emma seemed to relax a little and asked, "What about Ash? Will _he_ be back?" The unspoken subtext was, "What's happening to us?"

With a small sigh, Mickey put his arm around Emma's shoulders and walked with her back into the penthouse. The sun was starting to go down and a chill breeze was favouring the lofty heights of their apartment, so Mickey made some tea and they shut the door on the cool evening outside and settled down on the sofas – one each – for a talk.

"I'll be honest with you, Emma, I really don't know when Ash will be back. All he said was that he needed a break and would see me again in a few days." Once again being slightly economical with the truth, Mickey saw no need to further antagonise Emma with the idea that when Ash returned, it might only be to pack his bags and leave again, this time for good.

"Did you tell him? About us, I mean."

"Well, he'd already figured it out. He and Albert saw us, you know. The night we took a taxi to your place."

"Yes, Albert told me they'd seen us. I didn't realise he'd told you too, though." Here Emma looked thoughtful, as if putting the pieces of a jigsaw together and finally beginning to see the picture. "I thought Albert didn't want anyone else to know because it might jeopardise the crew. At least, that's what he told me."

"If it turned out that we weren't working together any more, you and I could have a future," suggested Mickey.

"You'd sacrifice that...?" Emma couldn't finish the sentence, but bit her lip to stop more tears coming.

"All good things must come to an end," shrugged Mickey, "and over the last couple of days I've realised that the crew is no exception. So why throw away what we could have to save something that's beyond saving, if it's come to a natural end...?"

Emma interrupted with indignation. "Who says it's come to a natural end? Is that what Albert thinks?"

"No, not at all. I was just...thinking out loud, looking at all the possibilities. I'm trying not to assume anything right now, and stay open-minded about what's ahead." He looked hopefully at the young woman opposite him.

Breaking the spell, his phone rang. Praying it was Ash, he reached eagerly for it, only to see Albert's caller ID on the screen.

"Michael, I'm still chasing Ash's trail and I think I may have found someone who knows where he's gone. Trouble is, that someone isn't available to speak to right now, so I'm staying put for the moment, until I get a chance for a face-to-face meeting. It may involve me being quite late, but I _will_ be back at the flat tonight, so don't worry, I haven't gone AWOL."

"That's great, Albert, thanks for keeping me in the picture. Give me a call if I can do anything to help from here."

Emma was looking expectantly at him as he finished the call. "Well?" she asked.

"Just Albert, to say he'll be out a bit later than he'd planned, but that he'll definitely go home to Stoke Newington tonight. Look, rather than hang about here, why don't we go out for something to eat? It's better than moping around, waiting for who knows what."

Something occurred to Emma and she said, "What about Albert's flat? I really should get back there to keep an eye on things, in case someone from social services pays him a visit and wonders why he isn't there."

"What, on a Friday night?" laughed Mickey, then seeing Emma's concern, he stopped and said, "You're right, of course you are. I'd be saying the same thing if the situation was normal." He paused, then added, "This is exactly why being in a relationship and grifting together doesn't work. You forget about the con and get too wrapped up in each other. Well, I do."

With a nod, Emma slipped her shoes back on and lifted her coat from the back of a nearby chair. Mickey shrugged his jacket on and walked to the apartment door. "We'll both go," he said. "We can stop off at that Thai place near your flat and get a takeaway."


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

Tasteful piano music tinkled softly in the background as a waiter brought Ash his main course. "Your chateaubriand, sir, and of course your accompaniments. Can I get you anything else, perhaps some water?"

"Yes, that would be fine. Ice, no lemon, please," replied Ash.

"Right away, sir." The man turned briskly on his heel, and just as quickly, Ash was no longer dining alone.

"Good evening, Mr. Prior."

Ash stared, his steak knife ground to a halt, and his mouth opened just a little in surprise before he managed to snap it shut again.

"Albert!" he hissed, looking around to see if anyone was watching them. "What the hell...what are you doing here?"

"Relax, my dear fellow, you're not working, are you?" asked Albert with a twinkle. His gift for putting people at ease dispelled the mixture of shock and caginess that had been Ash's initial reaction.

Ash gave a short laugh and laid down his knife and fork. "No, I'm not. Care to join me?" He indicated his plate.

"Well, I'm afraid I've already eaten, but I wouldn't say no to a glass of that excellent-looking wine."

The waiter returned bearing a jug of iced water and a glass, and Ash took the opportunity to ask him for another wine glass for Albert.

"Would sir care to see the menu?" enquired the attentive young man.

"No, thank you, just the glass will be fine," said Albert pleasantly. The waiter bowed slightly and left them to their conversation.

Ash had resumed eating, and in between mouthfuls managed to hold up his end of things. "I've got to hand it to you, Albert, it didn't take you long to find me. How on earth did you manage it?" he asked with grudging admiration.

"Oh, come on, how many years have we known each other? And as a practitioner of the same trade, I simply asked myself what I would do if I were in your shoes. The answer led me to a certain gent's outfitters in the City, where a very helpful assistant was able to identify you from a photograph, and provide me with your alias. From there it wasn't too hard to call a few prestigious hotels, not far out of town, and here we are. Ah, I must say, this is a rather fine vintage. Your very good health, Mr. Prior." Albert raised his glass and Ash did the same, shaking his head in amused disbelief.

They passed the rest of the meal enjoyably, chatting about this and that, but it wasn't until they had adjourned to Ash's room for drinks that they felt able to speak more freely, and the informal atmosphere froze away.

"If you've come to ask me to go back with you, Albert, the answer's no. I've been through all this with Mickey already."

"Not at all," was the surprising response.

"No? Then...why are you here?" Ash smelled a trap, and he was determined not to take the bait.

"I just wanted to make sure that you were all right. We haven't had a chance to talk since the other night when you stopped by my apartment."

"That was only a few days ago." As in his discussion with Mickey, Ash wasn't going to make it easy for Albert. He sat, arms folded, waiting to hear the admission that there was a problem, a big one.

"True, but things aren't quite the same as they were then." Albert stopped, then saw that Ash wasn't going to let him off lightly. "You realised that night that Mickey and Emma were more than just colleagues or friends."

"Did you know?" asked Ash, without emotion.

"Not for sure, no. I _suspected_, but only through observing little things here and there. I found out for sure at exactly the same moment as you did, when Mickey brought Emma home." He looked keenly at the fixer. "I half-expected you to step out of the shadows and into the cab with him."

A small smile played on Ash's lips. "I nearly did, too. But discretion got the better of me."

Albert nodded, also smiling. "You made the right decision. Nothing good would have been achieved by taking them by surprise. However, it hasn't been handled in the best way..."

"It shouldn't have happened in the first place, Albert." Ash looked down at the floor between their chairs, then up at his friend. "All those years of preaching the 'rules of the con' – you can't cheat an honest man, give them something for nothing, don't screw the people you work with."

"To be fair, Ash, the last one is Mickey's personal credo. But you're right, he broke his own cardinal rule and that's why you're here, Sean's in Sussex, and Emma and Mickey are back at her place having dinner."

Ash rolled his eyes. "So all that codswallop he fed me about them having split up was just so much..."

"No, no, I believe they have," interjected Albert hurriedly. "They're just going to need some time to readjust. We all will. We _will_," he repeated for emphasis as Ash shook his head.

"Is there an elephant in this room or something?" demanded Ash. "Nobody seems to want to discuss the fact that Sean, _Sean_, of all people, still doesn't know what his sister's been up to. He's likely to cut Mickey's throat and take Emma as far away from us as he can, if he finds out. And believe me, Albert, Sean could easily hear from a third party what's been going on. The last two mornings I've fully expected to see news of a murder in a certain London penthouse."

"It's a tricky situation, that's for sure. I suppose it might be better if Mickey told Sean rather than waiting to be found out..." mused Albert, getting up for a refill.

"The kid's messed up enough with their dad walking out and leaving Emma to bring him up on her own. He still depends a lot on her. I spend more time with him than you or Mick, and I can tell from the way he talks that he idolises her. She's a virgin princess to him, Albert, and I dread to think what he'd do to Mickey...what he _will_ do..."

Albert cut in, "Then either Mickey has to be up front and tell him, or we have to orchestrate a counter-whispering campaign to minimise the effects of any rumours Sean might hear."

"To try and convince him that whoever started the gossip is just jealous? D'you really think he'd swallow that, Albert?" asked Ash, sceptically. "It's not like he hasn't had his suspicions in the past."

"Let's see, shall we?" replied the old man as he got to his feet. Ash gave a resigned sigh and lifted his car keys from the table on the way out.

oooOOOooo

"Albert's just texted me, he's on his way back...I'd better get going myself," said Mickey, and began preparing to leave.

Emma looked deeply disappointed. "Ohhh...must you? It's not as if we need to hide..."

"You were the one who wanted to call it off," Mickey pointed out. "And for the moment, let's keep it that way, at least until we know what's happening with Ash. Plus, if Sean were to suddenly stop by to visit you..."

"He wouldn't do that, not when you've told him to stay in Brighton."

"Hastings," corrected Mickey. "Probably not, but do you want to take the risk?" Emma's face told him that she did not. "Then I'll go." He took out his phone and called for a taxi, which arrived within minutes. He did not kiss or even hug Emma goodbye, leaving her irrationally angry at him. She kicked the door shut when she heard the cab drive off, more annoyed at herself for being weak than at Mickey for being stronger. She knew she was being inconsistent, and this was to cause her a couple of sleepless hours that night.

Mickey arrived at the crew's penthouse and was taken aback to find Albert there, sitting reading the newspaper and drinking tea as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

"Albert! I thought you were going back to your place tonight? Emma's there, she's expecting you as well."

"Oh, I very much doubt that, Michael," answered the old man as he folded up the paper. "I texted her a few minutes ago, to let her know I'd be staying here tonight. I didn't want her to worry about me. So how was your evening?"

Despite the polite tone of Albert's enquiry, Mickey was under no illusions as to the reasoning behind it. "Nothing happened, Albert," he replied, drily cutting to the chase. "We had dinner, we talked, end of story. There _is_ no story, not now."

"Well, I believe you, but you might have some difficulty in convincing, say, Sean of that," suggested Albert. "What I have in mind is a straight choice: either you sit down with him and explain what has gone on between you and Emma, or you attempt to quash any rumours with the idea that it's all a campaign of disinformation started by a jealous rival. Whoever that might be."

Mickey stared at him in amazement. "Albert, I really don't think either of those suggestions are practical." He got no further.

"Well, you'll bloody well have to come up with something, cos the kid's gonna kill you with his bare hands if he finds out it's true," announced Ash, appearing from his room and taking Mickey completely by surprise.

"Ash!" Mickey turned to Albert. "You didn't say..."

"No, well, I wasn't sure if Ash would want to involve himself in this discussion. He's just come to collect a few things," explained Albert. "But I think you _are_ going to have to make a decision about how to handle Sean, otherwise he'll end up in prison and you'll end up dead."

"He's not that bad..."

"No, but then he's never had to defend his sister's honour like this before. Ash is of the same opinion as I am, that the best course of action is to be up front with Sean. Maybe even approach it from the point of view of asking his permission..."

"_What?_ You must be joking, Albert!"

"Never more serious, Michael. Can you think of a better way?" He rose to his feet without waiting for an answer. "I'll let you sleep on it. I'm going to turn in. It's been a long day trying to track down this one." He pointed in Ash's direction. "Goodnight, all."

"'Night, Albert," replied Ash. He turned to go back into his room, but Mickey quickly blocked his way.

"Aren't you going to at least talk about this, Ash?" he asked.

"Nothing to talk about until you've decided about Sean," was the short answer. "I'm just packing a bag, so if you don't mind..."

Mickey let him go and stood, at a loss, in the middle of the lounge. Ash emerged a few minutes later with a sizeable holdall, and started for the front door.

"When will you be back, Ash?"

The fixer stopped but didn't turn round. "I don't know," he said simply, and Mickey's pride prevented him from doing anything to stop his friend leaving once more.


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11**

Emma slept late the next morning, and was just getting ready to go to the corner shop for some milk when she heard a voice in the hallway outside her door. She kept very still and was able to clearly hear one side of what seemed to be a telephone conversation.

"No, there's no-one at home, as far as I can tell, but of course he could have taken ill – or worse...no, there's no phone number for him...all right, that's a good idea. I'll call you if there's anything new to report. Bye." Almost immediately, there was a rap on Emma's door, and she leapt back, startled. A few moments to rearrange her hairstyle, pop a stick of chewing gum into her mouth, and she was ready to answer the door. She stood, hair piled high, staring insolently at the woman in front of her, jaws working overtime.

"Yeah?"

"Good morning, are you Miss Holly Bardwell?"

"Who's asking?"

"Oh, I'm sorry, my name is Caroline Clark, and I'm from Hackney social services." She presented her ID card, which Emma studied with barely-concealed suspicion. "I'm trying to contact Mr. William Forrester, who I believe lives on the first floor. Your name appears on our records as having referred him to us, so I wondered if you knew if anything had happened to him? I can't seem to get an answer at his door."

"I dunno where he is," replied Emma. "He goes to an old folks place some days, maybe he's there."

Caroline Clark nodded. "That's right, he's got a placement at the Marjorie Graves Day Care Centre, but that's only on a Thursday. Have you seen him recently? I'm getting a bit worried that he may have taken ill."

"Nah, he looked fine when I saw him yesterday."

"Oh, you _have_ seen him? Was he coming in or going out?"

"Going out. He had a little bag with him, like old geezers have when they're going bowling or sumfink like that," expanded Emma, she and Albert having already worked out their story in the event of social services noticing his absence. And of course, Albert actually _did_ carry a bag that contained a change of clothing, so that he wouldn't be seen entering or leaving the bedsit in a Savile Row suit.

Ms Clark was taking a note of what Emma had told her. "Right...so...did you speak to him, or hear him say anything that might give a clue as to where he was going, or for how long?"

Emma screwed up her face to indicate that she was trying to remember. "He'd been talking about going to visit his niece...said sumfink about Ramsgate or some place like that. Seaside, anyway, he said it was. But I dunno if that's where he is just now."

"Have you heard him moving about upstairs since then?" asked the social worker solicitously.

Again, Emma looked thoughtful. "Nah, it's been dead quiet up there." Her hand shot to her mouth. "Oh gawd, I didn't mean..."

"No, no, I'm sure you didn't..."

"You don't fink he could be, do you?"

"Well, it would be better if we could check. I don't suppose you have a spare key?"

Emma looked as if a lightbulb had just been lit over her head. "Yeah! I remember now, he gave me one when he first moved in! It's 'ere somewhere..." She went to a chest of drawers and made a show of rummaging about in the top drawer, then produced the carefully-planted Yale key with triumph. "'Ere it is!" she exclaimed, and led the way up to Albert's door, which she opened cautiously.

"Bill! It's Holly, from downstairs! Are you in?" Emma called as she peered round the door, then straightened up with a sigh of relief. "No-one 'ere!" she announced happily to Ms Clark, who also seemed mightily relieved. Having satisfied herself that "Bill" was nowhere in any of the bedsit's two apartments (one of which was the bathroom), the social worker thanked Emma and they went back downstairs.

"If you hear from Mr. Forrester, will you ask him to give me a ring? It's very important that I speak with him. He's not in any trouble," she added hastily, lest Emma be reluctant to drop the old man in it. "We just need to be sure that his care package is working out for him. Can you give him my card and get him to call me?" She handed this to Emma, who nodded in agreement. "Thank you so much for your help, Miss Bardwell, I really appreciate it."

The woman left. Emma returned to her flat, shut the door, and found her phone. She dialled, then huffed in frustration at the voicemail announcement, running her fingers through her shock of blonde hair. "Albert! Where are you? Social services have sent someone round to see if you're OK. Call me, will you?"

oooOOOooo

Sean was starting to get bored. The first day had been vaguely interesting as he observed Gabrielle Stevenson in her various leisure pursuits: shopping, eating out, and, to his surprise, visiting a casino. He had never been to Hastings before, but what he knew of it had led him to believe it was a sleepy British seaside resort with nothing more exciting to offer than a walk along the promenade. However, after the initial novelty of playing the casino's slot machines and keeping a weather eye on Ms Stevenson had worn off, time started to drag. While she seemed content to spend time playing blackjack and roulette or demolishing the buffet, Sean became increasingly frustrated at being unable to let her out of his sight. He had altered his appearance with a temporary hair colour and a pair of glasses so that she wouldn't recognise her jobbing gardener, but he had noticed that she barely glanced at other people anyway. They were not what interested her. Sean began to wonder if they hadn't got things badly wrong, if Albert's joke about her "playing the ponies" wasn't so far off the mark after all. She seemed to be doing well at the tables.

At last, though, she appeared to tire of cards, and cashed in her chips. Sean made a brisk exit and waited in his hire car to follow her and ensure she returned to Willow Cottage, which she did. Conscientiously, he had booked a bed and breakfast a few hundred yards down the road from his quarry, and spent the night keeping watch to see if she went out again, or if anyone paid her a visit. It turned out that the most remarkable thing to occur was the milk being delivered the following morning. The thought of another day or two of the same routine was more than Sean could stand, and just after 8.30 he made a call.

"Mickey? Sean. No, nothing to report, and that's exactly the problem. She's not _doing _anything interesting...well, I'll give you a rundown of yesterday's activities, shall I?" He read from his notes. "11 a.m., she arrives at the cottage and unpacks. 11.30, off into Hastings for an early lunch and then shopping, followed by a visit to the nail bar, then a matinée at the local theatre. Back to her place, then out again at six for dinner. She spent the rest of the evening at a casino. She didn't meet anyone or do anything more than pass the time of day with a shop assistant. That's it. I swear, Mickey, if it's more of the same today, I'm going to throw myself off the end of the pier...oh, ha ha, very funny. Yes, all right, I'll keep at it. Anything happening there? Oh, OK, I'll let you go and check on that. Bye." He hung up, muttering, "'Star attraction' – hysterical," and looked out of his room window to see Ms Stevenson hurling her bags into the boot of her sports car.

Before she could fetch another case from the cottage, Sean was packed and downstairs, paying his landlady and thanking her for her hospitality. Luckily he had opted for an early breakfast in anticipation of having to leave in a hurry, so he was in his car and ready to follow Ms Stevenson a few minutes later when the silver coupé whipped out of Willow Cottage's driveway, heading for the London road. He had plugged his phone into the hands-free kit and now he rang Mickey's number.

"Sean, what is it now?" Mickey's irritated tones filled the car.

"She's not hanging about, Mick. She's on her way back to London, and with a face like fizz. Just suddenly started loading her car ten minutes ago, so it looks like she's had to cut short her stay for some reason."

Mickey's voice changed to one of concern. "That might be to do with Albert's visit from one of her colleagues," he surmised. "I'd better make sure he stays home in case Stevenson pops round to see him herself. Thanks, Sean. Look, there's no hurry for you to come back immediately. If you feel like taking a day off, go for it. Sounds like you could do with a break yourself."

Taken aback at this uncharacteristic suggestion, Sean was momentarily speechless. "Um...don't you think I should find out exactly where she's going first? She might be meeting someone."

"Sure. Follow her, report back, and we'll take it from there, all right?"

That was more like the Mickey Sean knew. "No problem," he said, and pressed the end call button. He shook his head in bewilderment. "A day off? He must be coming down with something."

oooOOOooo

Albert had already made his way back to Stoke Newington. After he had received Emma's anxious message, he rang her to find out what had happened. There was no need for Mickey to tell him he should get there quickly, and once again he became old Bill Forrester, waiting for another visit from social services. Albert's phone call to Caroline Clark's office was taken by a rather indifferent clerical assistant, who said she would do her best to pass the message on, but she couldn't guarantee Miss Clark would return his call until the next working day.

"Why can't people just say 'tomorrow'?" vented Albert to Emma as he hung up. "I do hope I'm never genuinely in need of social services' help; if this is an example of their urgent efficiency, I'd hate to see them being laid-back!"

"Well, if she hasn't got back to you in the next day or so, I think we can stop worrying. She seemed to relax when she didn't find you slumped over the kitchen table," grinned Emma as Albert turned from his look-out post at the window.

"I'm more concerned about the mark showing up," he replied, sounding short-tempered. "From what Sean told Mickey, she had to change her plans in a hurry – never a good sign – and may even now be beating a path to my door."

"Sean must still be following her, or we'd have heard from him again..." Emma broke off as her phone rang out. "Yes? What, her own place?...right...damn!OK, Sean." She hung up and explained to Albert, "He tailed her back to the house in Finchley. She got there about half an hour ago, but instead of taking her bags into the house, she went in and brought more stuff out, then got into a taxi with it all. Sean tried to follow them, but he lost her once they got onto the main road."

"Sounds like she's getting ready to go a bit further than Hastings," observed Albert, his eyebrows raised in surprise. "In which case, I doubt she'll have time to visit little ol' me. Shall we go for our constitutional?" He opened the door and ushered Emma out.


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12**

The next 48 hours passed uneventfully. Sean returned to the penthouse apartment, unable to cope with the idea of taking time off in the middle of a con, and Mickey paced the floor in a restless, impatient mood. Emma and Albert waited in vain for word from a social worker, and Albert grew more worried about Ash, who had moved on from the hotel where Albert had found him, and was refusing to answer his phone.

Finally Mickey caved in. "Emma, call social services to tell them Albert's back. See what you can find out – is there any special reason for the hold-up?"

But Emma's efforts fell flat. No-one was available who could help her, and once more the woman who answered the phone was singularly obstructive. When Emma rang Mickey to let him know, he said, "OK, I'm calling it. You and Albert pack up and come home. I have a bad feeling about this one."

Emma ran upstairs to inform Albert, who joyfully threw his few personal items into an overnight bag and declared himself ready to leave. Emma, travelling less lightly, took a bit longer to pack, and they each called for a separate taxi, which the ever-cautious and prudent Albert had suggested they take to two entirely different destinations. That way, there would be no remaining connections that would allow anyone to track them down.

When the four of them were finally gathered at the penthouse, Mickey announced that there would be a debrief in half an hour. Despite Emma's protestations that this would never be enough time for her to freshen up "after all those weeks in that dump", she was ready to join the other three assembled in the lounge at the appointed time. She glanced around, a slightly puzzled look on her face, and asked, "Where's Ash?"

Sean saved Mickey by replying, "At a family funeral in Wales. He's not sure when he'll be back, maybe the end of the week. There's some kind of property stuff he needs to sort out."

"Oh! Not a close relative, I hope," exclaimed Emma, dismayed.

"Don't think so – a great-uncle or something, was it, Mickey?" asked Sean.

"Something," retorted Mickey economically. "Right, Albert..." He turned his gaze on the old man, who was engrossed in his newspaper.

Emma nudged him. "Albert!" she hissed, nodding across at the impatient Mickey.

By way of a reply, Albert folded the paper and turned it round to display the headline, "Crooked social worker's haul". There was a large photograph of Gabrielle Stevenson accompanying the article. Mickey's jaw dropped in astonishment as Albert began to read aloud:

"A social worker has been charged with defrauding council bosses out of over £200,000 worth of goods that should have gone to needy families.

"Gabrielle Stevenson, 52, was employed at Hackney Borough Council and earned over £40k a year in her job as a senior social worker, where she was supposed to provide financial support to the vulnerable and disabled.

"Instead, it is alleged that over the past three years she charged a string of items to her employers at Hackney council, but kept the items or their equivalent value for herself. Household goods, fitness equipment, and furniture as well as thousands of pounds in cash were claimed as 'necessities' for pensioners, single parents, and terminally ill clients. A team of police officers were yesterday seen carrying dozens of evidence bags from Stevenson's Finchley home, as well as files and computing equipment.

"Ms Stevenson herself refused to comment, choosing instead to assault our photographer with a handbag."

Albert passed the newspaper over to Mickey, and an astounded Sean and Emma looked at each other in disbelief.

"So I'd say it's pretty certain we won't be conning Ms Stevenson out of much anytime soon," concluded Albert casually. "On the other hand, I think justice may have been better served this way."

Emma said, "When she was in Hastings, she must have had a tip-off that she was being investigated..."

"...and tried to do a runner before it all came tumbling down," added Mickey, as he continued reading the article for himself.

"Too late!" observed Albert wryly. "But I think we were fortunate enough to avoid being dragged into it."

"Perhaps you were her last victim, Albert," suggested Emma, simultaneously horrified and relieved at the thought.

Sean smirked. "I bet even now the cops are breaking your door down to try and find you."

"Out in the nick of time, then, I think – eh, Albert?" said Mickey, gratefully. "I _knew_ something wasn't right when she disappeared off the radar like that. At least now we know where her money was coming from," he finished, and sat back on the sofa while Sean and Emma pored over the story.

"It gets better," added Sean, and read on, "Police have appealed for any of Stevenson's social work clients to come forward if they have not already done so. Detective Inspector Michael Parrish told reporters, 'We are particularly anxious to speak to an elderly gentleman from the Stoke Newington area, whom we believe Gabrielle Stevenson was planning to defraud out of much-needed furniture and kitchen equipment that she had promised him.'" Sean added with a grin, "And there's a freephone number for you to call, Albert, if you want to get in touch with them." Albert merely rolled his eyes in response to this sarcasm.

There was silence while everyone mulled over this news, then Emma spoke. "So what do we do now? We don't have any other marks lined up, do we?"

"I think we all deserve a rest after this," declared Albert. "All that hard work and then nothing to show for it can be rather draining. In fact," he stood up and stretched, "I may go for a nap. I didn't sleep too well while I was away." He took himself off to his room, leaving the others to chat, plan, and eventually go out for a consolation drink. They didn't wake Albert, but Emma left him a note to say they'd be at Eddie's if he wanted to join them.

They had only been gone five minutes when Albert re-emerged from his room, looking cautiously around the apartment to make sure it was empty. His phone rang and he took the call. "Bernie?...ah, excellent! I owe you one...well, several...all right, quite a few...good grief, man, are you keeping score? Thank you," he finished pointedly, and put the phone away. He picked up the travelling bag at his feet, made his way down to reception, and asked for a taxi to be summoned.

"Where to, sir?" asked the concierge briskly.

"Heathrow," replied Albert. "And I'm in a bit of a hurry, so if you know of any fast drivers..."

"Fear not," was the response, "I see just the man sitting at the rank across the street." And with that, he whistled shrilly and waved to a burgundy-coloured cab parked nearby. He obviously knew the driver well, because just over an hour later Albert found himself in Terminal 3, gazing at the travelling hordes. He located the check-in desk, where he presented his passport and freshly-printed ticket to the British Airways assistant.

"Thank you, Mr. Davis," she smiled. "Have you any luggage to check in?"

"Just the one item, thank you," said Albert, placing it on the scales. The woman tagged it and returned his documents. "Here's your boarding card, Mr. Davis; if you'd like to wait in the First Class lounge, it's through these doors and just along on the right."

"Thank you very much," he nodded in reply. Once settled with a double malt in the executive bar, he looked at his watch; there was still some time before his flight left, so he decided to send one last text message before he turned his phone off. Having done this, he browsed through the various complimentary newspapers, paying special attention to the articles about Ms Stevenson. He was quite enjoying these, but swiftly laid _The Guardian_ aside as Ash walked past him.

"Ash! Why don't you join me?" he said warmly, and was rewarded with the mother of all double-takes.

"Albert...!" The fixer's eyes looked as if they were about to pop out of his head.

"I know, I know, we have to stop meeting like this. Where are you off to?"

"Somewhere sunny, quiet and _far away_," was the guarded retort. "How about you? Vegas again? Or is it Monte Carlo this time?"

Albert shook his head. "Neither. I've decided I need a rest from poker for a while, so I'm heading somewhere new and different: Cyprus."

Ash's eyes narrowed in suspicion. "That's where I'm going..."

"Really? What a splendid coincidence! I'm glad to see you're travelling First Class, it's definitely worth the extra few bucks. On the 4.30 flight, are you? Good. I'm sure the cabin attendant will see to it that we can sit together. We have a lot of catching up to do..."

oooOOOooo

"No, seriously, it was THE most ridiculous heist I had ever seen..." insisted Mickey, staggering slightly as he left Eddie's bar with Emma and Sean. They all laughed uproariously, and Eddie sighed, a combination of relief and disapproval. He swiftly locked the door behind them before he could be prevailed upon to order a cab. An extended night of hustlers' celebrations was as much as he could stand – although on this particular occasion, they had been celebrating their plans for a Caribbean holiday.

"Taxi!" yelled Sean, failing miserably and sitting down on the kerbside with a bump. This set a giggling Mickey off again, but Emma gathered herself and let out a piercing whistle which half the cab drivers in London could have heard. Fortunately one was all they needed, and he took them swiftly homewards.

Mickey continued to entertain his friends en route, and insisted on paying the cabbie when they got out.

"Watch it, Mick, you've dropped your phone..." Sean picked it up from the taxi floor and followed his sister and Mickey into their building. He noticed the alert light flashing on the BlackBerry, and pressed a button to bring up the screen. "Hey, you've got a text from Albert..." He was still standing, a little unsteadily, in the foyer, but by now the others were in the lift, as oblivious to Sean's activities as he was to theirs. He frowned as he read the message: "Gone away for a week in the sun. Keep an eye on things while I'm away and don't let things with Emma start up again. Make sure you have your story straight for Sean."

The lift doors had closed before he could look up again.

Emma snuggled close to Mickey in the elevator. In his relaxed state, he didn't object, and then they both heard a faint roar of outrage rising from the ground floor.

_**Epilogue**_

Michael Stone and Emma Kennedy are currently awaiting sentencing in a New York court, after leaving Britain to get away from Sean. Posing as an English media mogul with Emma as his girlfriend, Mickey picked the wrong mark and they found themselves the victims of an FBI sting.

Sean Kennedy also left the country, but managed to stay ahead of the law, despite there being an arrest warrant out for him after he tried to take Mickey's head off with a samurai sword. He was last seen picking up some modelling work in Milan.

Ash Morgan ended up inheriting a farm in Wales. It turned out he _did_ have a great-uncle who had left him something in his will. He moved there and makes a comfortable living out of cybercrime – advising companies and government agencies how to beat it, that is.

Albert Stroller found religion, gave up his gambling ways, and is happily spending the rest of his life on a monastery in Norfolk, where he tends the vegetable garden and is learning ancient Greek.

Eddie the barman keeps a table for his old friends in the hope that someday they will return and annoy him, just one more time.


End file.
